


The Dragon and the Wild

by queensmooting



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - A Song of Ice and Fire Fusion, F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-09 06:13:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18632449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queensmooting/pseuds/queensmooting
Summary: Cold winds rise and the last Targaryen princess makes her way to Castle Black, where the captured Queen Beyond the Wall awaits sentencing.





	The Dragon and the Wild

**Author's Note:**

> tagged for graphic violence bc of a few battle sequences but honestly this is prob a lot tamer than most asoiaf-type violence lmao. the only other warning I can think of is eren/mikasa is a mentioned side pairing but they're not rly featured or anything.
> 
> anyway I've been tinkering with this self-indulgent mess literally for four years so I figured maybe I should post it at some point!! a cursory knowledge of asoiaf would probably make this a Much more enjoyable read, but if you have any questions let me know <3 hope you likey

Ymir grits her teeth at a twig snapping behind her. It's the fourth in as many minutes. At this point they may as well light a fire, invite every man in the Night's Watch to come keep warm.

She turns to see Bertholdt looking sheepish, Reiner apologetic beside him. Between Reiner’s brains and Bertholdt’s combat skills she’s lucky to have them in her council, but they're Hornfoots through and through. She can't rely on them for stealth.

Ymir adjusts her fur-lined hood and they’re off again, fifty snow-muffled footsteps behind her. 

It’s near dusk when she spots their target and pauses to swear a silent oath. It was said no true northerner ever looked upon the Wall and lived to sing about it.

She passes an order along. Half the group will stay behind while she and a dozen of their best climbers continue through the dark. A month ago it wouldn’t be midday yet. Now clouds mask the moon, their only light.

_ Over the wall, open the gate, kill any we must. Then it’s as far south as we can march. The kneelers got one thing right. Winter is coming. _

They stalk on light feet until they’re within a mile of the Wall. It’s then Ymir realizes they're surrounded.

The crows breathe too loud, and their steel sings when they reach for their hilts. She knows they won’t strike until they come within a mile of the Wall, in sight of their archers. Ymir looks over her shoulder toward Annie, guarding the rear. They share a nod.

Cloaks rustle like feathers as the crows scramble to hide behind trees. Ymir holds up her hand.

She thinks of the small army they left behind. They will remain there as ordered, wait three nightfalls, then send the next group of climbers. The crows cannot hold the Wall forever.

Swords whistle on their way out of their sheaths. Ymir reaches for her axe, and Annie shouts the call to action. The crows move loudly but the war cries of the free folk are louder. They flush the crows out from their hiding spots and rush to meet them. Bodies and weapons meet in a flurry of rock and steel.

Ymir wets her axe with the blood of four crows before one of them lands a single blow in return. She feels the pierce of skin but not the pain, and twists away from the sword in her arm. She buries her axe in the crook of the fool’s neck, but it takes half a second too long to free the axe from thick shoulder bone. A strong hand seizes her arm at the spot of the wound, and her shout of pain is stifled by a blade at her throat.

“Drop your--”

She jabs the heel of her boot into the crow’s knee, twists in his hold. When she raises her axe her heads swims. Ymir wonders how fast she’s losing blood. 

The man parries her swing with his sword. Two more pairs of arms seize her from behind. Her own men, watching her capture, lay down their weapons. Annie spits a mouthful of blood on the snow as she allows herself to be taken. 

Ymir’s won every battle she’s fought. This is no loss. They would fight from within the castle when the time came. The crows haven’t seen the rest of her army, waiting in the dark.

They bring her to a ranger wiping down a blade, standing hooded in a ring of crows giving reports. The person is tiny, something girlish about the mostly-concealed figure that gives Ymir pause.

“Do they allow women on the Wall now, little crow?” Ymir calls out. “If I knew I might have joined and saved myself some frostbite.”

If her taunt strikes a nerve the ranger doesn’t show it. Ymir fidgets in her hold. She’s not used to being ignored. One the men guarding her takes bandages from another crow and wraps her arm.

It’s another minute before the ranger speaks, the voice harsh and low and decidedly male. Ymir’s almost disappointed.

“You’ll have to get your arm checked by our maester,” he says. “Gunther will finish your tourniquet for now.”

“Levi!” another man calls. He’s huge and bearded, hair obscuring his eyes and making him look half-wild himself. “Night is falling.”

“Give the order, Mike. Back to Castle Black.”

There’s shouting, then the single blast of a horn. The man called Gunther finishes wrapping Ymir’s tourniquet, then gives her a tug by her uninjured arm. 

“Welcome to the south, Annie,” Ymir says, grinning over her shoulder.

Annie gives a low snort in lieu of a smile. They set off and Ymir sets her eyes straight ahead, placing her trust in the army in the shadows.

*

The ship docks at Eastwatch and Historia turns away as Rod retches over the deck one last time. Travel has brought out the worst in his already-weak stomach. It’s been a month’s journey from Pentos to the northeastern edge of Westeros, and Historia’s eager to breathe air that doesn’t taste of salt and nausea.

Even bundled head to foot in furs she shivers. A chill she’s never felt runs down her spine when she looks upon the Wall. Seven hundred feet of ice stare back at her, radiating cold.

“I heard the Wall weeps in summer,” Historia says.

“In summer, yes.” It’s one of her father’s remaining bannermen, unloading supplies from the ship. “But summer is over, my princess, and a long one it’s been. I expect we’ll see a raven within a year announcing the turn of winter.”

Men of the Night’s Watch stream from a fortress by the harbor, eager to escort the rightful king into their hall. The steward leads his men and shakes Rod’s hand, bowing steeply. Historia trails after her father, another shiver betraying her rigid posture.

“This isn’t Castle Black,” she whispers.

Rod turns his head just enough to show the tight smile on his face. Her mouth clamps shut.

She hardly takes in a word as they’re shown around the Eastwatch fortress, overwhelmed by the novelty and the cold. She follows the men until they’re shown to their quarters. Historia has a room to herself. It's cramped, but she’s relieved to find a hearth. 

“I’d like a word alone with my daughter,” Rod says.

“Of course Your Grace.”

The steward closes the door. Once she might have braced herself, expected angry words, but today her father slumps against the door and struggles to catch his breath. She remembers her uncle Uri suffering the same rattling cough, before Grisha Baratheon’s sword eased his passing. Soon after she fled for Essos along with her father and sister Frieda, far from the usurper’s banners.

“You should not question me,” Rod manages between coughs. “Not in front of--”

He dissolves into hacks that make her chest hurt to hear. Historia passes him a handkerchief. She catches spots of blood on the white cloth when he holds it to his mouth.

“You were right,” he says. “This is not Castle Black. I told you it would be Eastwatch first, then another three day’s ride. Can you handle that, or--”

He wheezes into the handkerchief.

“I can, Father. I won’t say another word about it.”

“We need the support of the Watch, Historia. With winter coming the people won’t stand for a boy-king who can’t control his temper. They need a ruler who will protect them. You remember what lies beyond, don’t you?”

Wildlings, giants, and worse. Historia’s heard the tales, and she’s seen enough of the world to believe them.

Rod nods and straightens up, knuckles white on the door frame. He’s so small. He’s always been small, like her, but she’s never seen it so clearly than before now.

“There will be a feast in our honor at dusk,” Rod says. “Be ready.”

He goes, and she waits until his uneasy footsteps fade before moving again.

Historia sits at the edge of her bed and opens her chest of belongings. There’s her clothes, a needlework set, an old hairbrush of her mother’s, toys and trinkets that hold little sentimental value to her anymore. She pushes aside skirts and wraps until she finds what she’s looking for, tucked away carefully at the bottom.

She runs a hand over the stone scales of her dragon egg and imagines a lively warmth under her fingertips. It’s nothing but a relic now, a bygone age frozen in time, but as a child Historia dreamt of watching it hatch into a magnificent little beast, all blue and silver like the sheens of its egg. She would name it after her sister and they would be the best of friends, exploring land and sky alike.

She smooths her thumb over the cold stone. It was only a youthful delusion now, as so many of her dreams had become.

Historia closes the chest and falls back onto her covers. She closes her eyes and still feels the rock of sea waves.

*

Levi shakes the snow from his hair as he enters the common hall. His skin prickles to see the master-at-arms, Nile, sitting at Erwin’s right. Levi’s earned that seat as First Ranger, but he has better things to do than pick a fight with a man who couldn’t grow a green boy’s beard.

“Lord Commander,” Levi says. 

He'd never been one to bother with titles, but he knows Erwin hated to stay behind from the mission. The title is a reminder of the importance, the necessity of his leadership.

Erwin only nods in response, but his eyes are something soft in the stone hall. 

“Lord Commander,” Ymir says, sarcastically enough that Levi bristles. “I wondered why I didn’t see you on the battlefield.”

“I expect to be back soon enough,” Erwin says pleasantly. He rubs his injured calf. “One of your men got me with a club big as a boar on our last outing. I congratulate him. It’s not so easy to land a hit on me.”

“My men are the best,” Ymir says. She casts a derisive look around the hall. “My women, too.”

Erwin speaks again, his tone less conversational now.

“You are Ymir, the one they call the Queen Beyond the Wall?”

“Aye.”

“And you are aware that by crossing the Wall, you are now subject to the jurisdiction of the Seven Kingdoms?”

“I piss on your jurisdiction.”

“See her to the maester’s quarters,” Erwin says to the men flanking Ymir. “We’ll discuss a sentencing within the week. Levi, Mike, a word if you don’t mind.”

Erwin rises slowly, leaning on a cane. His face is stiff and grave. Levi’s fingers curl and clench in his palm.

The three of them stop under an eave outside the common hall. Levi draws his cloak close, huddling near the wall to avoid the wind. He once heard Winterfell stayed warm from hot springs below its surface. No such comforts were found at Castle Black.

“How many were captured?” Erwin asks.

“Twelve taken alive, Lord Commander,” Mike says. “Including Ymir.”

“And how many wildlings were scouted on the last ranging?”

“We saw two hundred, perhaps fifty more than that. But there were more hidden, hundreds more. I could sense it.”

“Biding their time?”

“Perhaps, Lord Commander. But Ymir has great trust in her people. It could be they have instructions of their own.”

“I see. Thank you Mike. You may freshen up and get warm if you like. Levi, there's just one more thing I need to discuss with you.”

Mike inclines his head and leaves without another word. Levi follows Erwin to his chambers, close enough to draw warmth from his cloak.

Six years in the Watch and he still can’t get used to the weather. Levi was raised in Mole’s Town, only a stone’s throw from Castle Black, but the cellar village was sheltered from the cold by earthen tunnels. He never could have imagined the chill in the shadow of the Wall.

When the door shuts Erwin looks at Levi carefully, head to toe. Something scared breaks loose in his eyes.

“Hey,” Levi says softly.

He goes to Erwin and thinks of opening his arms. He grips one of Erwin’s instead.

“It was strange not being there with you today,” Erwin says. He smiles, almost shyly. “Not knowing if you would return on your horse or on a cart. Forgive me.”

“Well I'm fine, so stop your moping,” Levi says. He squeezes Erwin’s arm and releases him. “Is that all you had to discuss with me?”

“Ah. No.”

Erwin steps back and goes to his desk. He pulls out a letter.

“Rod Targaryen has landed at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. He will arrive within two days, along with his daughter and all their retainers. We’ll need to be ready to receive them.”

“Of course.”

“The training yard will have to be organized to make room for the king’s soldiers. The Tower of Guards will accommodate their sleeping quarters, and we’ll need two of our best chambers in the King’s Tower readied for Rod and the princess.” Erwin sighs. “I’ve never received royal guests before. I hope I don’t make fools of us all.”

“You’ll do fine.” Levi steps close, runs a finger along Erwin’s jaw. “Just trim this beard. You’re starting to look like a wildling yourself.”

Erwin smiles. “And I can count on you to keep tabs on Ymir?” 

“Aye.”

Levi goes quiet as a thought suddenly occurs to him. Erwin picks up on it instantly.

“What’s on your mind?”

“Erwin, what do we do if the crown gets word of this? The king couldn’t catch us in a plot if we marched a Targaryen army under his nose, but his wife, that Qartheen girl....her spies are ruthless, aren't they?”

“You’re right. They may get wind of this. And if they do, they will know why. We begged their help and they denied us, even now as winter comes. Some things are bigger than a crown. Rod Targaryen is willing to help us survive the upcoming years. Eren Baratheon made his choice.”

Levi nods, conviction stirring in his blood. Just as the king made his choice, Levi made his. And he chose the right man to follow.

“I’ll begin preparations.” Levi heads to the door. “Get some boring work done. Stay off your leg. And Erwin?”

“Yes?”

“Put spikes in my seat the next time Nile tries to sit there.”

Erwin laughs sharply, coughing into his gloved fist. “Anything you say, Levi.”

*

The maester’s room is stifling hot, like nothing Ymir’s felt since the start of summer, years ago. She goes to tug at the neck of her cloak and one of her guards puts a hand on the hilt of his blade.

“No sudden movements,” he warns her.

“None of that now,” booms a voice by the fire. “Leave her here. I’ll bring her to her cell after. You’re dismissed.”

“Can you believe it,” one man murmurs to the other. “The Lord Commander making us take orders from a bloody witch.”

They leave, closing the door behind them. Ymir watches the hunched figure work at the fireplace for another minute, muttering to the flames and pinching spices over a pot.

“Is that a potion?” Ymir asks. “Some spell?”

The maester lifts a spoon to their lips. “It’s lunch, dear.”

Then they stand and face Ymir, the linked chains around their neck clinking together. 

“You’re not a man,” Ymir says.

The maester’s laugh is loud but wheezing, husky, like they’ve spent half their life in this dusty room, surrounded by their overgrown herbs and crackling books. 

“You’re more polite than half this lot. They’re quicker to point  _ this _ out.” 

With one finger they gesture to their left eye, milky and blank and rippled  with scar tissue. Ymir’s seen enough injury and pain not to flinch. 

“I’m no woman, either. The name’s Hange, and I’m the best maester the crannogs ever cooked up. That’s always been good enough for the Lord Commander, so no one else here questions it. Not to his face, at least. Sit now.”

Ymir lets Hange clean and stitch up her arm. She looks around to distract from the pinches at her skin. Snow drifts lazily at the window and on its sill an odd assortment of potted plants absorb what daylight they can. The shelves gleam with tubes and trinkets. Something else glints in a clear box, something Ymir recognizes with a surge of goosebumps--

“Dragonglass,” Ymir breathes.

Hange’s hands still. They turn, following Ymir’s gaze.

“Ah, yes.” They grin. “You’ve seen it before?”

“Only in drawings,” Ymir admits. “It's real?”

“I wouldn't leave it behind if a White Walker came knocking at the gates.”

Ymir scoots closer, heart beating fast. “So you believe. You believe in White Walkers? You have to tell the Lord Commander, southerners won’t listen--”

“ _ I'm _ a southerner, you know. We haven't all had our wits boiled by the sun.” Hange smiles sharply. “You need to sit still if you don't want me nicking anything important. We can talk later if--”

“Listen to me,” Ymir says, slamming her palm on the table. “There isn't time--”

“I don’t need to call your guards back in, do I?”

The insult stings at Ymir, as does the thought of being under guard at all. Like she’s a child. Like she hasn’t spent her whole life proud of her freedom.

Hange frowns until Ymir relaxes, then their demeanor becomes pleasant again.

“Now, let me re-stitch this seam you popped,” Hange says cheerfully. “Then we’ll talk about the Others.”

*

Rod falls from his horse less than a day’s ride from Castle Black. A tent is hastily constructed to let him rest, but when Historia enters she knows he won’t be leaving alive. The air in the tent tastes humid and sickly.

The healer from Essos hovers over her father with a wet cloth. Historia covers her mouth with a gloved hand, shallowing her breath.

“You won’t avoid catching it,” the healer tells her. “Perhaps not today, but soon enough. You were born into death, princess.”

Rod’s head lolls to the side at the sound of her title. Something in his red, runny eyes lights when he sees her. He holds out a trembling hand and she approaches with slow steps.

“My girl,” he says with a tenderness she rarely heard while he was healthy. “You must--only you can--”

He breaks to cough. It’s thin compared to the strong fits that plagued him for months. Historia stands frozen at his bedside. As sick as her father was she somehow never truly thought it would come to this.

“You’ll protect the realm.” He laughs bitterly. “Better than even--than Uri, perhaps. Certainly better than I. Ah, Uri. Finally--ah--showed, did you? Come to see your--your little brother off?”

His eyes glaze. Her lungs tighten.

“Father?”

“Uri...take care of them.”

He gazes blankly at Historia until he lacks the breath to cough. Then he goes quiet. Historia feels the weight of her birthright creeping under the flaps of the tent, edging up her spine.

“We’ll want to burn him,” the healer tells her. “Like your uncle and your ancestors before you.”

Historia stares into Rod’s unblinking eyes. If she breathes, if she moves, it will all become real.

“Yes,” she says after a time. “Built a pyre.”

She distantly remembers her grandfather’s funeral, though she was little more than three at the time, shortly before Uri’s coronation. That day she learned the stench of burning flesh and spent the ceremony gagging behind her uncle, using the hem of his robe to plug her nose. Today she won't flinch.

Fire takes her father in spurts of orange and black flecks of ash that mingle with the autumn snows. The pyre is taller than he ever was. 

_At least_ _he’s warm now,_ she thinks absurdly. The wind cuts through the flames and sends a hard shiver down her back.

“Your Grace,” a man says. “We must move.”

_ Your Grace _ . It’s a numb sort of shock that shoots down her arms, reminds her she’s a queen now. A queen of snow and starved soldiers and long-dead dragon eggs.

“Yes,” Historia says. She turns away from the pyre, doesn’t look back. “Let’s go.”

*

“White Walkers.” Erwin turns to Hange. “And you believed her?”

He’s known Hange for the better half of a decade, known them to be ultimately logical under all their flighty theories and experiments. But he’s never heard anything like this, not outside children’s stories.

“What reason would she have to lie?” Hange asks.

“We’re holding her hostage. More than that we’re holding her people hostage. She’d say anything to get us to let her go.”

“Not if she thinks she’ll be rescued.”

Erwin smiles wryly. “I never knew Mike to be so chatty.”

“Levi told me your theory. He knew I was tending to her and wanted me to see what I could get out of her. Erwin, she’s not worried about her own life, not at all. She knows something we don’t. There’s something bigger going on beyond that wall.” 

Erwin stares into the carved black whirls of the long oak table. The Targaryen arrival, the threat of the Baratheon crown, wildlings in the forests beyond the wall, and now the possible extinction of Westeros. Erwin wishes he had another brain, more hands, more time.

He meets Hange’s eyes. “You really believe her.”

Hange folds their hands, sits back in their chair. “They say that boy-king’s a skinchanger. They say his wife is some kind of child sorceress. It seems anything is possible these days.”

“So you believe her.”

“I do, Erwin.”

Erwin sighs slowly. “I want an audience with her. I need to hear her story for myself. And I need to know whom we can count on, in case any of this madness proves true. What allies do we have?”

“Dorne has no love for the crown,” Hange says. “And the Martells are old friends of the Targaryens. They will aid their true queen. And don’t count out the crannogmen. If need be I can bring the Neck to the table.”

“Oh?”

“Petra Reed’s father was the lord of Greywater Watch before her, and my father was one of his bannermen. Lady Petra herself is familiar with many of the northern lords. Perhaps one ally can lead to another.”

“This will be enough to make her listen to you? Old ties through her father?”

Hange glances down, smiles wistfully. “We were...close, before I left to begin my training at Oldtown.”

“Ah.” Erwin doesn’t pry any further but he knows the signs of a flustered Hange, the way a blush brings out the shades of auburn in their hair. “Alright. Send a raven as soon as you can. You don’t have to tell her everything yet, just reintroduce contact.”

Hange springs to their feet, leaving the room with a clink of chains. Erwin’s alone with his thoughts for little more than a second before a herald sounds outside, different from the horns signalling the return of rangers. More musical.

Erwin crosses to the window, pulls back the curtain. The door swings open to reveal an out-of-breath Mike.

“Lord Commander--”

“I’ve heard.” He releases the curtain. “The king has come.”

*

The Lord Commander surprises Historia. He's a tall, clean-shaven man with golden hair, his face lacking the pallor of the grim-faced northmen around him. He looks like a king from the songs. For some reason she thinks of her father, how little his crown seemed to suit him.

But Historia knows better now. It was his heart that made him unfit. 

She's not the only one surprised. The men of the Night’s Watch look straight past her, searching for another Targaryen. Someone who isn’t her. Historia’s stomach drops in shame.

“Welcome, princess,” the Lord Commander greets. He looks at the carts behind her. “Is His Grace within?”

Historia looks to the grey skies where her father's ashes scatter in the winds, where they will float down like snowflakes in their own time.

“King Rod, Third of His Name, fell ill during our travels. I regret to say he did not survive.”

It gives her clarity to state this, unaffected and unemotional. To watch the news sweep fresh through the ranks when she's already numb to it.

One of her guards speaks. “You have the honor of addressing Queen Historia, First of Her Name.”

The men of the Watch mutter to each other, some confused, some angry. The Lord Commander only falters a moment before bowing his head. “Your Grace, then. I'm sorry to hear of your loss. We will work together to honor your father and your dynasty.”

Historia nods stiffly in return. She wishes she could be as quick and poised with her words as this man. She feels like a storm inside her waits to spill over.

“Your Grace and your men must be chilled and weary from your travels. Our steward will see you to your chambers, where you may rest before supper.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

She follows the steward past countless staring faces, mostly slack-jawed and shivering young men. She’s reminded of the boys her father arranged for her to meet in the Free Cities, hoping a match might strike. Even the perfumed little princes of Essos seemed made of hardier stuff than the frozen brothers of the Night’s Watch.

Historia never thought much of marriage herself. Her father handled the worrying for her. He would lament that Historia was born a girl, otherwise he might have married her to her sister. 

The Targaryens wed brother to sister for hundreds of years. She thinks of the sickness that took her father, the madness that took so many of her predecessors, all for the purity of their blood.

It’s a lonely relief, to know the pattern would end with her.

The steward leaves her at her room, where a fire already blazes in the hearth. Two knights bring her trunks, leaving them at the foot of her large, comfortable bed. Even the Lord Commander couldn’t have such fine accommodations. She wonders if these would have been her father’s chambers, and feels cold despite the fire.

“Anything else you need, my lady?”

“Only privacy now, thank you.”

Her knights close the door behind them. Historia slips the furs off her shoulders and sinks onto the bed. The crown of her head throbs in stress and exhaustion and a strange grief she wouldn’t know how to express if she tried. She’s never felt more tired. She can’t close her eyes.

*

Ymir’s captors drag their feet on a sentencing. They have too many other worries at the moment. She bites back a smile when she thinks of her army, ready to scale the wall in two day's time. She's thankful for the predictability of southerners.

While waiting she's guarded every moment of the cold day. Two crows are assigned to keep watch over her, both now shivering behind her while she empties her chamber pot outside.

It's a fine chance to spy a bit on the daily life at Castle Black. In the grey afternoon light the unpleasant master-at-arms watches a dozen lads awkwardly parry each other with blunted blades. Bakers take mounds of dough into the kitchens for supper. A few boys in the training yard stand at a nervous attention when the First Ranger walks by.

“It’s unfair,” one of her guards grumbles. His eyes narrow at the First Ranger, crossing the yard toward the common hall. “That sullen runt gets his own chambers and rank while we’re mucking out stables and shepherding prisoners? My second cousin’s father was a lord in the Reach, you know!”

“Bloody favoritism is what it is,” the other guard mutters, voice lowering. “The oath only keeps us from taking wives, doesn’t say anything about fucking some little--”

“I’ve seen your stables, crow,” Ymir interrupts loudly. “What makes you think you could range if you can’t even scoop horse shit?”

The man behind her gives her a shove. “Finish scrubbing and let’s go.”

Ymir glares into the depths of her chamber pot. “Wouldn’t have to bother with this if you lot weren’t too prissy and proud to shit in the cold like the rest of us.”

On the way back to her cell Ymir’s eye catches on a girl standing on the balcony of the King's Tower, bright in the gloom of Castle Black. She's wrapped tight in furs, her near-white hair whipping in the icy breeze. Two guards in red and black flank her, and their eyes go to Ymir in an instant.

This must be the Targaryen girl. Ymir heard she was arriving, heard what happened to the girl’s father too. The crows couldn’t keep a secret any better than they could keep winter away.

The girl surges to her toes to whisper in one guard’s ear, her gaze suddenly on Ymir. Ymir looks away, redoubling her grip on the chamber pot. Perhaps the little queen wished to see Ymir’s execution with her own eyes. A sampling of blood to cut her teeth.

“Flocke,” a tall man calls to Ymir’s guards. “Flynn. The Lord Commander wishes to see the prisoner.”

“The prisoner can hear you,” Ymir mutters before Flocke nudges her in the back. 

The warmth of the common hall is a welcome relief for only a moment before she meets the Lord Commander’s eyes, cold and inscrutable. The First Ranger, Levi, sits at his right, the steel knife in his hands a gesture of intimidation that almost makes her laugh. At a table on the side of the hall Hange scribbles in a book. They glance up at Ymir’s entrance, offering a tiny smile of recognition.

“I hear you’ve been telling our maester some interesting stories,” the Lord Commander says. “I’d like to hear them for myself.”

“To hear them, or mock them?” Ymir sneers. “Aside from your maester, you southerners have as little imagination as you have pricks. Why bother with this farce?”

“Shouldn’t bother with her at all, Erwin,” Levi says. “She’d die before she gave up her pride, even if it meant her people. Why not speed the process and bring out a block now?”

Her blood boils. Erwin lets Levi run his mouth, regarding Ymir all the while.

“Tell me what you’ve seen,” Erwin says. “No rumors, no legends. Only what you’ve seen with your eyes.”

“I’ve seen things that would make your blood colder than it already is.”

“You'll speak to him with respect,” Levi says sharply.

“It’s alright, Levi.” Erwin’s gaze never leaves Ymir. “Continue, and be quick about it.”

Ymir looks around at the men watching her with fear, with curiosity. The attention of the hall is hers to command. 

“I’ve seen a Hornfoot die of old age in the morning and rise again at night, lusting for blood like an animal. I’ve seen dead limbs twitching for a body to reattach to. I’ve seen an army at least a thousand strong marching south over the frozen Milkwater, with flesh like sheets of ice. They were White Walkers, the very same that caused your lot to build this wall eight thousand years ago.”

Only now does Levi make a noise of derision, but it’s half-hearted. Hange looks up from their book. No one else stirs in the hall.

“You know they were the Others?” Erwin asks.

“As I saw it, I swear it on my mother’s grave.” She puts a quick fist to her heart.

“And this is why you decided to advance on the Wall.”

“Aye.”

“Not for conquest. Not for glory.”

“Nothing personal,” Ymir says. She laughs, and can hear the desperation in her own voice. “But a wall between us and the Others would be a good thing indeed.”

Erwin and Levi exchange a look, half-formed questions in the minute expressions on their faces.

“We want to survive,” she says, regaining their attention. “We want to live to see the next summer, same as you. Or am I wrong?” 

Ymir fixes Erwin with a long look. “Think, Lord Commander. Who is the real enemy?”

*

Historia sits a throne prodding her with sharp edges every time she relaxes her shoulders. The heavy oak doors on the other end of the hall open to reveal her father, not sickly but straight-backed, adorned in regalia. He strides toward her, face pinched in anger.

“That seat is mine, girl,” he says.

“You’re dead, Father. It is mine now.”

Rod’s eyes blaze. He takes two more steps before he begins coughing. He coughs until his body erupts into a fine dust. A hooded servant arrives quickly to sweep the remnants away.

Next comes Frieda, her eyes kind and proud. She wears a simple linen dress, the kind she once wore in the sun-glazed heat of the free cities. Historia can smell the warm cloth, the spicy perfume Frieda used to wear. Her eyes prickle.

“You should have been born first,” Frieda says. “Look at you. You were meant to be queen.”

“I wish it were you.”

“We all wish things, little sister.”

Frieda smiles, reaches a hand toward Historia’s face. Her flesh pales, clammy and sick. Something green and foul oozes from the side of her mouth.

“Frieda--”

She turns whiter and whiter. Pus seeps from her mouth and skin and eyes. It overwhelms and dissolves her very bones, til she’s nothing but a puddle on the polished floor. The servant mops the mess.

Now comes her mother, alight with rage, eyes white without pupils. Historia freezes to her throne.

“See what you’ve made of your sister?” Alma shrieks. “Now we have nothing. Your father gave me naught but girls and now you’ll have to muddy the bloodline or watch our family name die, but you’d like that wouldn’t you, you wretched child--”

Historia holds tight to the arms of her throne as her mother approaches. Alma collapses when her throat bursts in a shower of blood. She claws at herself, folding and shriveling until she’s nothing.

The servant gently towels away the blood as Historia catches her breath. When he finishes he straightens and removes his hood. It’s her uncle Uri, a gentle face she barely remembers.

“What troubles you, dear?”

His voice is distant and foggy, muddled by her own memory. 

“I can’t do this,” Historia says, voice high and panicky. “It should have been Father, or Frieda, it should still be you--”

A hole bursts through his chest, large trickles of blood pouring down his front. Now there’s no one left to clean up the mess. No one but her.

“What’s done is done,” Uri says. A thin line of red droops from his smiling mouth. “You can run from your destiny, or run toward it. Whatever you choose, don’t look back.”

_ “Uncle, wait--” _

Historia wakes unsettled, only the bite of cold at her nose reminding her where she is. She has a meeting with the Lord Commander at midday. She pushes back her covers and shakes the ghosts from her shoulders, shivering as she goes to dress.

At midday Historia enters the antechamber to the common hall where the Lord Commander receives audiences. She feels on edge, like she’ll turn around to face corpses. The echo of Uri’s voice is slow to leave her.

Historia’s brushing the snow from her fur hood when she realizes she’s not alone. The striking woman she noticed yesterday hunches over a small table, flanked by two men of the Watch. She writes on a small scroll of parchment, her hands brown and long-fingered and moving with sharp strokes.

“Would you like my seat, little queen?” the woman asks without look up. “Or is there another reason you can’t stop staring at me?”

“Don’t address her,” one of the men says. “My queen, this is Ymir, styling herself Queen Beyond the Wall. She is a prisoner here.”

_ Queen Beyond the Wall _ .  _ A wildling _ . Historia’s heard the stories growing up, and for a moment the free and fanciful child she once was springs forth from her memories.

“You may keep your seat,” Historia says. “Your Grace.”

Ymir looks up from her parchment now, eyeing Historia incredulously. Then she laughs, high and loud, her mouth wide open and toothy.

“Your Grace,” Ymir repeats. “Gods, that’s a first. No need to waste your niceties on me,  _ Your Grace _ . I reckon this lot will have my head soon enough, best not get attached to it.”

Historia straightens her back, regards the woman properly. Ymir’s younger than she looked on first sight, a woman grown but hardly more than that, certainly near Historia’s eight-and-ten years. She wonders if they count the years beyond the wall, or if it all blends together in a long life of cold.

“You can write,” Historia says.

“That surprises you.” Ymir smirks, holds the parchment up. “Just confessing to my crimes. No use lying about them, they’ll make for great songs.” 

Historia isn’t sure whether to laugh or pity her. Ymir shrugs at the lack of response.

“One of my earliest teachers was a deserter from the Watch. He taught me to read and write in the Common Tongue. Gets me a fair bit of respect down here, but we’ve got little use for it north of the Wall.”

“No?”

“In my army we speak a dozen tongues, with a dozen more dialects for each. We record our history through paintings and stories and songs. It’s a different life, but it works for us.”

“How extraordinary.” Historia smiles. It’s been some time since she’s been able to smile. “I’ve traveled so much of the world and there’s still so much I don’t know about it.”

“That’s good.”

“What is?”

Ymir smiles too. “You can admit you don’t know everything. Rare for a southerner, rarer still for a queen.”

The door opens and an old man peeks his head out. “Your Grace, he is ready for you.”

It takes a moment to remember why Historia came. She looks back at Ymir, who managed to fascinate her in a matter of minutes. It’s a shame to know her fate, to know they might never speak again.

“It was good to meet you,” Historia says.

“Aye.” Ymir nods toward the open door, something amused dancing in her eyes. “Off with you now.”

Historia enters the hall without another look back. She’s surprised to only see the First Ranger, who looks like he’d rather be doing anything else. He doesn’t rise from his chair when she enters.

“Where is the Lord Commander?”

“I’m not good enough to receive you?” Levi waits for her reaction, sighs when he gets nothing. “I sent him off, told him I could handle this. Don’t embarrass me now.”

Historia watches him for a moment. Compared to the amiable Lord Commander, Levi is an off-putting man, but Historia knows she’ll have to deal with all sorts of unpleasantness if she is to rule in King’s Landing.

“I came to speak with the Lord Commander about reclaiming the Iron Throne. What he can do to help me along the way, and how I plan to aid the Wall in return. Is this agreeable?”

“Agreeable enough.” Levi reaches across the table and slides a plate of food close to her. “Bread?”

They sit quietly for a minute as they eat. Historia softens the lumpy bread in a cup of watery ale she doesn't have the stomach to drink. She misses the spices of Essos, the lively flavors and colors of food. She misses many things.

“So?” Levi finally says.

“Yes?”

“What's the plan, then?”

Historia looks about for a napkin, finds none, and gingerly wipes her hands on her skirt. “I understand the Lord Commander is from the Westerlands. I thought perhaps if he still held sway there we could acquire forces loyal to the Lannisters, in addition to the Dornishmen we know will come to our aid.”

She could hear the girlishness in her own voice, the uncertainty in parroting her father's words.

“You don't strike me as terribly ambitious, Your Grace.”

So Levi could hear it, too. Historia looks down at her own hands, the crumbs of bread peppering her fingers.

“My father was the real king. And my sister was supposed to be queen after him. For years I never thought...but I  _ am  _ queen now. And I'm going to take King's Landing.”

Levi leans toward her. “What makes it yours to take?”

“It is my home.”

“Do you even remember this home of yours? You were, what, five when your uncle had a sword shoved through his heart?”

“It is my  _ birthright _ ,” Historia snaps. 

She may not have the ambition he’s looking for, but she won’t tolerate this near-stranger making light of her family.

Levi is unperturbed. “Well, I spent five years of my own thieving in your shithole of a birthright, and I can tell you there's not much worth taking.”

Her curiosity smothers her anger. “You lived in the capital?”

“A charming spit of land called Flea Bottom, right in the shadow of the castle. But I was born and raised in Mole’s Town, almost as charming.”

Historia sits back in her seat. “What is your family name?”

“Don't have one. Never had a father, and my mum was born without a name of her own. She was a Qartheen slave until she found her way to Mole’s Town.”

Historia struggles to remember her lessons. “If you're a bastard from the north, then your name would be Snow, wouldn't it?”

“Weren't you listening?” Levi says, a nerve struck. “I don't have a title or land or family, none of that shit. I answer to one man, and he's never needed a name from me.”

Historia marvels at how different their experiences are, their worlds. She thought she had it hard growing up a nomad, a lost princess. She told Ymir the truth of it; there was so much to learn.

“You're half Qartheen then,” she says. “I thought you looked, er…”

“Not Westerosi?” Levi raises his eyebrows.

“Forgive me.”

Levi rolls his eyes. “If you're going to be a queen you should do a little less apologizing and a lot more demanding.”

“That's not the sort of ruler I want to be,” she insists, voice steadier. “And I'm already a queen.”

He looks almost impressed. “Well. That's a start. Now, let’s talk about the Dornishmen.”

Historia finishes her ale, sets aside her cup. “Let’s talk.”

*

A brief drum of knuckles on the door precedes Levi’s entrance. Erwin looks up from his scrolls.

“We've got our work cut out for us with this girl,” Levi says. He looks exhausted, and Erwin feels some of it seep into his own bones. “Rod was weak, but at least he grew up in courts. He knew what it took to rule.”

“Perhaps it's good that Historia does not.”

Levi considers. “Perhaps you’re right. You do tend to be.”

“I was right about you, wasn’t I?”

“Alright, alright.” 

Erwin catches a quick smile before Levi rubs his hands over his face.

“Seven  _ hells _ ,” Levi says. “This girl had so many questions. At least our oath gives us an excuse to not have any brats.”

Erwin smiles. “Come here.”

He stands and moves so Levi can sit in his chair. Levi sinks into it with a heavy sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. Erwin gently brushes his hand out of the way and takes over, digging into the tight muscles with his thumb.

“Levi. This White Walker business. What do you make of it all?”

“Do I think Ymir’s telling the truth?” Levi hums thoughtfully. “She doesn’t seem the type to make up wild stories to grovel for her life.”

“You’ve been so hard on her.”

“Just to bring out her nature. I dunno, Erwin...it’s hard to believe in something I haven’t seen with my own eyes. I’ve never been that way. But I believe her. Or at least I believe that she believes what she saw.” He snorts. “For all the help that is.”

“It does help.” Erwin’s done little but mull over the options in front of him since Ymir’s capture. Levi’s judgment clears his mind.

“What’re you working on?” Levi asks, picking up a scroll on the desk.

“Letters to the lords of the north. Thanking them for their many years of support for the Watch, and reminding them of the importance in maintaining those ties going into winter.”

“I thought it smelled like bullshit.” 

He tips his head back toward Erwin’s hand, eyes sliding closed. He makes a sound so close to a purr Erwin almost laughs, but he doesn’t want to break the spell. This is the most peace he’s had in a month.

“I suppose the Westerlands will be of no help,” Levi says.

“Naturally.” Erwin’s hand stiffens for a moment, then relaxes against Levi’s skin. “It’s my own doing.”

“Your father’s,” Levi reminds him. “And it still wasn’t his fault. All he did was refuse to pay unfair taxes to a bunch of Lannisters gone mad with power. He was trying to protect your family, the people who worked and farmed for your family.”

“I could have righted his wrongs. Tried to make amends with Casterly Rock.”

“You wouldn’t. Not with your father’s blood on their hands.”

Erwin doesn’t respond. It’s a strange old wound, far away in years and miles alike, but like any old wound it never quite went away. He remembers the confusion of his comfortable life being stripped from him as a boy not yet ten. He remembers how he never took a last look at Castamere, for he always assumed they would return. How Lannister soldiers tracked his mother, Lady Reyne, and killed her in her inn bed. How the Wall became the only shelter he could run to, the brothers in black the only family he would ever know again.

“No,” Levi says, “we’ll do without the Lannisters and we’ll be better for it. You know, even before I met you I hated that fucking song. There were a couple guards from Lannisport who patrolled Flea Bottom and they fancied themselves regular minstrels, always--”

Levi stops. He tips his head back to look at Erwin, who hasn’t spoken.  He covers Erwin’s hand with his.

“Sorry. I’ll shut up.”

“It’s alright,” Erwin says, but he grips Levi’s hand gently in appreciation. He resumes rubbing Levi’s neck, feeling the sore muscle melt under his fingers.

“I should be doing this for you,” Levi mumbles, eyes closing again. “You should be off your feet. But it seems you’ve got some new thing on your plate every day.”

“I know. I feel as if I’ve barely seen you.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Levi says, waving a hand. He opens one eye, squinting up at Erwin. “Not that you’re wrong.”

Erwin smiles apologetically. He pets Levi’s hair once then steps away reluctantly, buttoning the clasp on his cloak. He picks up his cane.

“I need to see to our defenses,” he explains. “Sleep here if you’d like. I’ll need you tomorrow if there’s a wildling attack.”

“What can I do?” Levi asks, sitting up straight.

“Sleep,” Erwin says, more firmly.

“You’ll wake me up when you need me?”

“I always--” Erwin stops, feeling foolish for even beginning the thought. Too many pressing matters to pause for sentimentality. “Yes. Now get some rest.”

*

Today more members of the Night’s Watch gather to see Ymir summoned before the Lord Commander. They’ve marched in the other captured free folk to watch as well, proud clan leaders with their hands bound in the back of the room. Even the Targaryen girl is here, looking on from a seat at the side of the hall. Ymir wonders if it means anything, if they think they can scare her into surrender.

For all the time they spend in the north, the crows know too little the ways of the free folk. Something about all the years of bending knees and kissing asses.

“What is it now?” Ymir asks Erwin. “Finally tired of parading me around this shithole? Ready for my head?”

“We know you have a band of wildlings waiting in ambush just beyond the Wall. We’d like to give you a chance to treaty with us and avoid bloodshed, of our men and yours alike. If we cannot reach an agreement, then we will plan your execution.”

Ymir watches him, unblinking. Could it be a bluff? How could they know about her army, unless a scout slipped past her eye, her own scouts?

“You know, eh?” she says, watching their expressions closely. She could spot a white hare in the snow from a hundred yards. She’ll see if any of these crows have a tell. “Got skinchangers in your ranks? Did one of them become an eagle and fly through those trees out there and see a great bunch of scary free folk waiting to scale the wall?”

“We saw your numbers on previous rangings. I don’t imagine your people are the type to tuck tail and retreat without a leader. Certainly you’ve prepared them too well.”

It’s all flattery to get her to bend to their terms, Ymir knows. She raises her head high.

“What nonsense would I have to do to secure this...treaty?”

“Swear an oath. You and your people will harm no southerner, raid no village.”

“So become kneelers.” Ymir wants to spit, scoff, but knows it will earn her nothing but a jab from one of her guards. “Good prissy little shits like the lot of you.”

“No one is asking you to give up your culture. We here at Castle Black have men from all walks of life, all corners of the world, all with stories of their own. We have men who go beyond the Wall to swear their oaths to heart trees instead of the seven new gods. We have men who swear to no gods at all. All I ask is that we work together to protect the realm from any threat. As it is now you are a threat. This does not have to remain so.”

“Piss on that,” a voice says from the back. 

Ymir looks over her shoulder to see one of the Hornfoots, Reiner, looking defiant before a crow kicks in him the shin.

“Enough,” Erwin says. 

The crow grabs Reiner roughly, forcing him to his knees.

“I said enough,” Erwin repeats, voice ringing with authority.

The crow looks indignant but keeps his mouth shut, releasing Reiner. A low murmur sweeps over the room. The audience grows restless, like a rising bloodthirst.

“May I speak?”

Every head falls silent and turns to Historia, who looks surprised to hear her own voice. 

“Of course, Your Grace,” Erwin says.

Historia looks directly at Ymir. She fiddles with her gloves nervously.

“I haven’t been on this continent since I was five years old. I’ve never been in the north before this week. All of this is new to me. In a way I understand how terrifying it is, to seek shelter in a new land, by any means. At any cost. If...when I become queen, I swear I will never do anything to cast your people out. If you abide by the Lord Commander’s terms, your people may seek and find safety in my realm.” 

Historia leans forward, eyes never straying from Ymir’s. “I swear to you.”

Ymir finds the girl more fascinating with every word. Somewhere in that timid shell was a true queen.

“You say your people seek passage to the south,” Erwin says, and only then does Ymir remember the others in the room. “It does not need to come to war for this to happen, does it?”

Ymir studies his face. His mouth is downcast, eyes exhausted with only the faintest hint of a plea. He truly wants a resolution, not a spectacle. Perhaps she underestimated these southerners.

Some, at least.

“Aye,” she says. “There’s war enough to come.”

*

Erwin returns to his chambers elated. It lasts only a moment before Hange arrives at his door, bearing a scroll sealed with a golden rose stamped in wax.

The response was too prompt to be any sort of good news. Erwin reads it with resignation, refusing to give into the sinking in his stomach.

“We’ll move ahead with the plan,” Erwin says. “With or without Tyrell armies.”

“Aye. Who needs those filthy old bastards anyway?”

“They’re filthy rich, though, and we might’ve used some of that.” Erwin smiles wryly. “In any case, Ymir is leading us north to her people on the morrow, to bring them into the fold. I’ll need--”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Hange says firmly. “Not on the morrow. That leg needs at least another week of healing.”

“Hange, this is a major diplomatic treaty with the wildlings, if I’m not there--”

“Then you won’t take a fall and freeze to death out there,” they say. “Or get a bloody infection or a wildling dagger through the heart. You’ll stay here and leave this to the rangers.”

“You sound like Levi.”

“I sound like your maester.”

“I used to be a ranger, you’ll remember. Before I got bogged down with all this administrative drivel.”

“You were an ambitious sprite, aye, I remember. Almost got your damn self killed every time you went ranging and drove your own Lord Commander up the wall.”

“Up the wall.” Erwin can’t help a laugh. Perhaps he’s more tired than he realized. Hange’s company is a balm. He nearly forgets the letter from Highgarden.

“You were never meant to follow,” Hange says fondly. “You were meant to lead and that’s what you’re doing. You’re right where we need you.”

“Levi did put you up to this, didn’t he?”

“I’m speaking as your friend, Erwin. If you want to know what he thinks, talk to him.”

Erwin wishes it weren’t too late for a drink. “It’s a prickly subject with him these days.”

“Then let me make it easy for you. As your maester, I forbid it.” Hange claps him on the shoulder. “We’ll talk again after this ranging.”

“Thank you, Hange.”

Erwin sighs heavily when they leave. His leg flares up, surely out of spite.

Perhaps he’ll have that drink after all.

*

The next morning Ymir readies herself with gloves and a cloak thrown over her clothes, lined with furs from rabbits she trapped herself. Besides her weapons and her wit, it’s all she needs.

The crows meanwhile layer their bodies with heavy armor, so heavy she wonders how they can move at all. It’s no wonder the southerners keep the free folk away. They’re too bloody slow to fight.

“You’re going back beyond the Wall?”

Ymir turns to see Historia, miserably out of place in the snowy courtyard. Even wrapped in endless furs she shivers.

“Aye, Your Grace. Going to miss me are you?”

“Do you want me to miss you?” Historia seems taken aback by her own boldness. A flush sneaks into her cheeks, a little warmth for her blood. “Be careful out there, then.”

“It won’t be any trouble, little queen. You’ll remember I spent my entire life there...these past three days aside.”

“Right.” Historia smiles. “Well.”

Her cheeks still shine with pink. Though perhaps not becoming of a proper queen, it’s charming in its own way.

“I don’t need a goodbye kiss,” Ymir teases. “You can go back to your nice warm room.”

Historia only laughs as Ymir secures her gloves, looks toward the gathering of crows.

“Though I certainly wouldn’t turn one down!” Ymir adds.

She doesn’t look for Historia’s reaction before walking toward the gate, near-giddy. She hopes the feeling lasts the day.

*

Levi draws an arrow the moment they reach the edge of the woods beyond the Wall. Ymir gives him an irritated look but says nothing.

The forest is familiar and no noisier than usual, but Levi feels wildling eyes creep along his spine. He reminds himself to unclench his teeth before his jaw locks up in the cold.

Ymir leads them with a torch to light the path. Any sudden movement on her part gets a reprimand. Levi knows better than to underestimate the ways of the wildlings.

“Are we close?” Mike asks.

“Just another half mile.” Ymir glares over her shoulder. “Keep your pants on, crow, or you’ll freeze your ass off.”

Over the last half-mile the canopy thickens enough to taper off the snow level. Ymir slows and Levi signals for the rest of them to stop. Ymir whistles, two low and two high notes. She waits, the sound lingering in the frigid air. She whistles again. When there’s no further movement Levi frets.

“Where are they?”

“They can probably hear you loud bunch of crows,” Ymir says under harsh breath. “And they’re probably wondering what the hell’s going on.”

She gives a different whistling signal, three long high notes and one short low one. Still no movement, no sound. Even Ymir looks dismayed.

“They were here, right here…”

Levi pulls Ymir forward by the collar of her cloak. “Right here, were they? Should’ve known you were leading us into a trap.”

Ymir shoves him off. “I’m not that bloody obvious. They must’ve heard you stomping a mile away and took cover.”

“That whistling could be heard back at Castle Black. Why aren’t they coming?”

“Give them time.”

Levi growls under his breath.  _ Fucking wildlings _ . “Let’s get the hell out of this clearing, we’re sitting targets here--”

There’s a shuffling in the shadows cast by the trees, shrouded in dark. It sounds like dragging footsteps. Levi nocks his first arrow. He meets Mike’s eyes, nods toward the rustling sound. The other rangers move silently through the snow to ready themselves.

A man emerges from the shadows and Levi raises his bow.

“Not another step,” he warns.

A high gurgling noise answers him, like choking on blood. The man stepping into the clearing is dressed in furs, with long, scraggly hair covering most of his face.

“One of yours?” Levi asks Ymir.

“I--I don't--”

Ymir's hesitation is enough for one of the oldest rangers. He grabs the stranger from behind, holding a blade to his throat. The man bites down on the ranger’s arm, teeth sinking shockingly deep. Levi lets his arrow fly into the man’s shoulder, where it leaves no effect. The man throws his head back, tossing his hair and revealing vivid ice-blue eyes. The rest of the rangers yell and spring into action.

The wight rips away a chunk of the ranger’s arm, muscle and blood spraying on the snow. Another ranger slices, knocking it off balance. Levi doesn’t dare loose another arrow in fear of hitting one of his own men in close-quartered action. He draws his dagger and stabs the wight in the throat to knock it down. Mike hacks an arm off with a swing of his sword. The wight immediately rises again, its disembodied arm reaching out blindly. Levi freezes with disbelief for a moment before he and two other rangers knock the wight to the ground again. This time Mike decapitates it completely. 

Levi’s chest heaves with adrenaline and revulsion.  _ This shouldn’t be happening. This can’t be. _

“Move!” Ymir shouts. “Don’t let that head roll away!”

She pushes past rangers to put the wight’s body to her torch. The dry skin crackles quickly, its clothes catching fire. Mike brings her the head and she lays it on the body to burn. The clearing falls silent save for the sounds of men breathing hard over the fire.

“You believe me now?” Ymir demands of Levi, wild-eyed in the light of the flames.

Behind him Mike fixes a tourniquet to the old ranger’s arm. Levi wonders if it can be saved at all. Sweat stings at his skin, the only warmth in the otherworldly cold beyond the Wall.

“Alright,” he says. “Alright. I--”

The forest around them erupts with sound, snarling and groaning and trampling of earth. Levi trades his dagger for his longsword as at least a dozen blue-eyed monsters pour into the clearing. Mike, still tending to their ranger’s arm, can’t fight off a wight before it latches its jaws onto his scalp. Levi doesn’t have time to call to him, go to him. For now he puts aside the sickness in his heart.

Time melds into the whirl of screams and sweat. Levi helps incapacitate wights as long as he can for Ymir to finish them off with her torch. But they’re slow deaths, and they’re overrun. Another ranger lights a torch by touching it to Ymir’s and it turns the tide, but by then their brothers have fallen in significant numbers. Levi tries not to think about what they’re losing, only the wight in front of him, only the kill.

They burn the last wight and the sensations of the world return to him, the bone-chill wind and blood-strangled coughs of his men, the men Erwin entrusted to him. Mike is already dead, his head a mangled mess, his size the only thing that gives him away. Four others are dead, at least two more will be soon enough.

“We’ll have to burn them too,” Ymir murmurs, hollow-voiced.

The walk back to the Wall is heavy with silence, save for the occasional pained noises from injured rangers. It was dark when they left in the morning and they return in a deeper sort of dark. Levi’s experienced three winters before, two of them proper northern winters, but he’s never felt such a foreboding.

When they pass the castle gates the injured men go straight to Hange’s quarters. Ymir lingers in the yard, looking distant.

“I’m sure your people escaped,” Levi says. “They would’ve heard the wights coming.”

Ymir laughs sourly. “That first wight had a bronze breastplate, like the people of Thenn. I knew it then even before I saw his face. His name was Marcel. An ass through and through, but loyal. He still spoke the dying tongue of the First Men. He even taught me a few words when the Thenns joined the cause but I never bothered to learn any more. I thought there would be time.”

Ymir faces Levi, eyes dry and clear. “Those  _ were  _ my people, crow. You tell your Lord Commander what you’ve seen. He’ll believe you. Tell him, and let the rest of my people avoid this fate.”

*

Erwin allows the wildlings entry through the Wall. On the next ranging he sends Ymir with greater numbers, only after forbidding them to give her any trouble. They reach the rest of her people without encountering a single wight. Within days hundreds of wildlings pour through the gates with tired eyes and growling stomachs. On carts they bring their dead, the price of Erwin’s hesitancy.

He imagines the hell to pay when the crown gets wind of his actions. Already he feels the gathering of Baratheon fury at his back.

Wildling bodies and men of the Watch are burned on a common pyre. Smoke climbs too high to see, far beyond the clouds that threaten more snow. In the ashes he sees every brother lost, every gruesome end met. Mike, who was his first friend when Erwin arrived at the Wall, young and scared and freshly grieving a family.

“And now their watch has ended,” he says. 

Half the witnesses echo the words. The wildlings are silent.

Levi’s been quiet since his return from the ranging, and this more than anything sways Erwin to act fast. He’d never known Levi to be so fazed by anything. 

He wonders if anything can stop what’s coming. If seven hundred feet of ice will be enough. Days warm enough to make the Wall weep grow fewer and farther between.

Every week Erwin leans less on his cane. Soon he will able to take up his sword again. The mere idea makes him feel useful, in control. Soon he will see what awaits them with his own eyes.

As the fire dies his men hover near its embers, talking quietly, comforting each other. Tears fall from the eyes of the youngest ones, green boys who’d never seen death, never smelled it. Erwin doesn’t belong here.

He retreats to his quarters, removing his boots and cloak before sinking onto his bed. He’s only there a minute before his eyes grow heavy with sleep. It’s only a minute more before there’s a soft knock at the door. It opens before Erwin can open his mouth.

Levi enters silently, sits on the edge of Erwin’s bed. Erwin reaches for his wrist, grips it loosely.

“Can you stay?” Erwin asks.

“Gelgar got the wildlings to their quarters. The overflow are on their way to Mole’s Town. Everything seems in order for tonight.”

“Can you stay?”

Levi frees his wrist so he can take Erwin’s hand, squeezing it once. “I can stay.” 

He takes his boots off, setting them beside Erwin’s, and crawls in beside him. Erwin hadn’t the energy to start a fire tonight, but he feels warmer already with Levi so close. 

Levi sighs, so breathy with exhaustion it hurts Erwin’s heart. Life on the Wall was never easy, but it seemed simpler only a month ago, when they had nothing more to worry about than procuring oil for the elevator or salting meat for winter. He wishes he could give that back to Levi, that and more.

“You look better,” Levi says. He runs a hand along Erwin’s cheek. “Without the beard.”

“I thought it was distinguished,” Erwin says, mock-pouting. “Lordly.”

“You thought, eh?” Levi snorts. His eyes slide closed and he adjusts his head on the pillow. There’s only one, but neither minds sharing warmth. It could be the sweltering, hazy grip of a southern summer night and Erwin would never mind sharing his space with Levi.

He should tell him more often.

“Levi?”

He makes a low grunt in response, already near sleep.

Erwin smiles and closes his eyes. It can wait.

*

Historia watches the funeral from the balcony outside her room, far above the mourners. She’s seen enough of fire this week.

The wildlings remain even after the members of the Night’s Watch retreat to their barracks. Slowly they dissipate, looking lost in their new lodgings. Only Ymir remains, seated on a log near the pyre long after the last embers died.

“Your Grace,” her guard whispers. “Perhaps you should retire for the night. It’s getting cold.”

“It’s always cold here.” Historia tightens her scarf, made of silk. The garment was fashionable in Essos but highly impractical here. “You may retire yourself, ser. I’m going to take a walk before I sleep.”

He looks unsure but doesn’t question her, bowing and taking his leave. Historia picks a warmer scarf before she goes.

Ymir’s back stiffens as Historia approaches. She imagines growing up north of the Wall would force one to develop heightened instincts, sharp ears and eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Historia says. “About your people. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“You know now, at least,” Ymir says. “About the wights. The Others. You know they’re real.”

“I never doubted.”

Ymir glances over her shoulder. “That makes one of you this side of the Wall.”

“I was raised in many corners of Essos. It’s another world there, not...closed-off and cold, not like Westeros.”

“Is that so?”

“I’ve met magicians and red priests and shadowbinders. I’ve seen dragon eggs and stone men. It’s hard not to believe in what they say is impossible.”

Ymir smiles. It doesn’t quite reach her eyes, but Historia understands.

“I’d like to hear your stories, Your Grace.” Ymir moves to make room. “Sit. You’re queen of this frozen log after all. And you  _ are  _ the most interesting person here.”

“I doubt that.” Historia picks up her skirts and sits anyway, wincing at the cold bumpiness of the log. 

“But you are. By  _ far _ .” Ymir nods toward the castle courtyard. “Come now, you’ve met this lot. Won’t find a grimmer bunch of bastards anywhere in the world.”

“They gave me shelter,” Historia says, trying to be fair. “Most lords in the realm would have my head to gain favor with the Baratheons, and they came to my aid regardless.”

“Aye, there’s good in them, no doubt. I still wouldn’t pick any of them as a companion. Could you imagine?” Ymir takes on a low voice. “‘Oi, Jonny Whatsit, isn’t that a lovely lake?’ ‘Aye, Your Serness, it’s only too bad we’ll die a bunch of frozen virgins.’ ‘Grunt.’ ‘Grunt.’”

Historia claps her hands over her mouth to keep from giggling. “You’re terrible.”

“You have no idea, m’lady.” 

Ymir flashes a grin, and this time it lights her eyes. Historia can’t say why she loves it, why it makes her forget her discomfort and the cold.

“But you,” Ymir continues. She looks at Historia’s gloved hands, folded on the fine skirts on her lap. “You’re worldly. Resilient. You survived everything your family couldn’t. You listen and you learn. You’ll be a good queen, if you can make it to King’s Landing.”

Something glows in Historia’s chest. “May I ask...how did  _ you  _ become queen of all the wildlings? When I met you I was surprised. For a queen, you’re so…forgive me--”

“Uncouth? Ugly?” Ymir laughs. “Young?”

“Yes, young, I suppose. For myself it makes sense, our monarchy passes through lineage. But you were appointed.” Historia smiles. “Perhaps a little uncouth, but I’m sure some would find your personality...charming. And you’re certainly not ugly.” 

Historia is learning to be bold, and so she tells the truth of it. Ymir is striking, gorgeous, words she’s not quite ready to set free.

“Well.” Ymir holds her head high. “I certainly wasn’t elected for my looks, but thank you. And so you know, we prefer to call ourselves the free folk. Wildling is just so...southern.”

“Forgive me.”

“You didn’t know, so there’s nothing to forgive. Gods, you need to apologize less.”

“You’re not the first person to tell me that.”

“I bet I’m not.” Ymir tugs gently at a loose strand of Historia’s hair. Her scalp tingles pleasantly.

“Go on then,” Historia says, smoothing her hands over her hair. “Tell me the story.”

Ymir’s smile fades a touch in the remaining whispers of light. “It’s not a very nice story. When I was fourteen, members of an ice-river clan attacked my village. The clan leader came into my house and nearly killed my mother. He bit clean through her cheek before I could find her axe. I fought him off and managed to kill him.”

Historia swallows. “And your mother?”

“Survived with a scar, til she died of fever the next year.”

“I’m sorry.”

Ymir stares deep into the ashen pyre. “It was years ago now. Don’t worry. But you’re interrupting my story, Lady Queen.”

“I--”

“If you apologize again I’ll have to gag you.”

Historia laughs nervously. Ymir’s smile returns.

“The clan leader’s daughter was brought to me after the fighting was done. She was mine to execute, you see. Next in line and all. Most free folk don’t follow that hereditary kneeler nonsense but this girl was strong, smart. She was meant to lead. I looked into her eyes and I thought about it. What more would it lead to? More wars? More pillaging? I couldn’t do it. I asked her why the ice-river clans were roaming so far south. She told me about White Walkers taking over her lands and wiping out entire villages, creating wights everywhere they went. So I struck a deal with her. We would work together for the betterment of all free folk. We would lay down arms against each other and take them up against those who would see us all dead. If that included the southerners who would keep us on our side of this Wall, so be it. Annie’s been one of my closest friends ever since. 

“Other clans joined us when they got wind of the White Walkers. Hornfoots, Thenns, tribes that were once mortal enemies coming together. And because I struck the first treaty it just...seemed to happen that I struck the rest. I had an ear for languages, so it was easy for me to communicate across tribes. People began to look to me, even when I was sure I had no answers. But I found the answers along the way. You will too, dragon girl.”

“You really think so?”

There’s an answer ready on Ymir’s lips until she meets Historia’s eyes. She stops, swallows, glances at her own knees. 

“Don’t be looking to me for validation, I’ve been making it up as I go. Trust in yourself, that’s all I can say. Trust your own gut and heart. Can’t rely on anything else in this world when it comes down to it.”

Historia quiets at the change in her demeanor. They have less than forty years between them, yet she feels the weight of lifetimes of stories, not only on her shoulders but Ymir’s. Ymir suddenly looks small, back hunched, lonely on her side of the log. Historia shifts closer. One of her skirts catches on a splinter but she doesn’t pay it mind.

“Still,” Historia says after a moment. “Reassurance is a nice thing to have, isn’t it?”

Ymir looks up again, something close to fondness in her eyes. 

“Aye. I must say, I didn’t think I would smile tonight, Your Grace. Thank you.”

Historia hears her own voice in her head.  _ Quit apologizing. Be bold. Speak up for yourself _ . She speaks with her hands now, reaching out with one to take Ymir’s. Now it’s Ymir in a fluster. Historia’s own smile widens.

*

Too often Levi’s dreams take him somewhere far, somewhere warm, the flowery stretches of the Reach or the rolling dunes of his mother’s homeland. Somewhere he could watch Erwin flourish in the sun, not waste away in ice and snow.

When Levi wakes he could still be dreaming. The sun through the curtain could trick him into thinking he’s back in King’s Landing, if not somewhere farther south. Then he lifts his face from Erwin’s back and the morning stings his skin. 

They’ve had too few chances to share a bed as of late. For once Levi is slow to rise.

The next week passes quicker than any he remembers at Castle Black. There are wildlings to feed, others wishing to train, some eager to study fire and dragonglass with Hange. There are high lords to write to, alliances to seal. Patrols triple along the Wall.

Every day Levi catches little more than pockets of sleep, often on the benches of the common hall. Erwin’s face is a scarce sight.

It remains scarce until Erwin summons him to his chambers eight days after Levi returns from the last ranging. Erwin quickly shuts the door behind him, urgency in every tight movement.

“This just arrived.” Erwin holds up a scroll, its wax seal unbroken, heralding a crowned golden stag.

Levi’s heart drops. “I don’t suppose the king’s answering our pleas for aid.” 

Erwin breaks the seal. Levi goes to his side to read with him, the words written in a blocky, harsh handwriting.

_ To the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, _

_ You are sworn to guard the realms of men and yet you harbor a traitor. A battalion will be at your gates in a month to collect the Targaryen pretender. Surrender the wretch or I will find a Lord Commander who will.  _

_ Your liege, _

_ King Eren of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm _

“Short and sweet,” Erwin says.

Levi’s blood chills at the threat.

“Let the boy come get her himself,” he snarls. “See how well that goes for him.”

“Levi--” 

“Dammit, how did he find out? You don’t suppose someone here--”

“No.”

“Erwin I know you believe the best in everyone, but think, really think…”

“You know the ways of Qarth. Their magic. That Mikasa girl has ways with her spies we can’t imagine.”

Levi follows Erwin’s eyes to the window, to a raven perched on the sill. It squawks and flies off at their movement.

“Could be anything,” Levi says. “ _ Dammit _ .”

“We have a month. What lords do we have, Levi? What armies?”

“The Dornishmen would never get here in time. Fine, Historia will need them later. And Hange has the Neck ready to come to our aid. They’re not renowned soldiers, but they’re loyal.”

“And they’re numbers we need. Now if we can only bring Nan Stark to our side, the rest of the north will follow.”

“She’ll have heard about Mike by now. He was her father’s ward in Winterfell before he got all noble and took the black. She’ll come to fight for him.”

“We can hope.”

“What about the wildlings?”

“We cannot ask them to fight our wars.”

“Maybe we won’t have to. Ymir has taken a liking to our queen.”

Erwin raises his eyebrows. “Has she?”

“I’ve seen them walking together every morning this week. Historia breaks fast with her and the wildlings now. They both seem...happier.”

“Good.” Erwin smiles. “Diplomacy aside this is good. I’ve worried about Historia alone here in this dismal place. I’m glad she’s found a friend.”

Levi shakes his head, terribly fond of this thoughtful man.

“You need to worry about yourself, Erwin.” 

Erwin’s attention is already lost. He turns to the desk, laden with notes and maps and markings. 

“So, you think the wildlings will fight?”

“If Historia can get Ymir, I think she’ll win the rest of them. Or enough of them to make a difference.”

Erwin nods. He’s still favoring his good leg as he stands over the desk and shifts papers aside. Levi resists the urge to tidy. They have no extra space anymore.

“You believe in her, Erwin? Historia?”

“I believe she’s better than what we have now. I believe she wants to be better, and that’s enough to sway me.” He turns to Levi and musters a reassuring smile from the tired lines of his mouth. “And I believe I’d say the same even without our backs to the wall.”

There’s comfort in Erwin’s certainty. It’s good enough for Levi.

“Guess we got some more letters to write,” he says.

Erwin squeezes his shoulder briefly. “I’ll get fresh ink.”

*

Historia grew up with assassins in her shadow. She watched poison take her sister, fought off a mother who would rather smother her in sleep than watch her die at the hands of usurpers. She watched the same mother claw at her own split throat as her murderer’s footsteps faded into the night.

So her heart stays steady when the Lord Commander tells her about the usurper child’s army. She's seen death's face before. And this time is different. This time she isn't alone.

The men of the Watch train twice as often, the castle ringing with the clash of wood and blunted metal. Free folk train right alongside them, the ones who decided not to seek shelter in the sprawl of the northern kingdom. She likes watching wild-haired, leather-clad women from beyond the Wall laughing and trading sparring tips with the brothers in black.

She doesn’t think of how many of them might be dead in a few week’s time, by her command. Already there are enough ghosts counting on her.

Ymir joins her many afternoons now. With few other rooms left available she still sleeps in a cell, but the Lord Commander gives her freedom to come and go as she pleases. Sometimes they explore the castle, or walk the Wall, sharing hard crusts of bread between them like children passing sugared candies. It’s how Historia once imagined a courtship would be. She remembers her sister Frieda arm-in-arm with princes of Pentos and Braavos, strolling sun-draped lanes under flowering trees.

No flowers grow on the Wall. Only the blood-red weirwood leaves can compare. But there’s a happiness inside her with Ymir at her side, warm as the eastern sun.

Today they sit on a bench in the training yard, sheltered from the snow by eaves overhead. Ymir points out more of her own people among the ranks, introducing Historia to each from afar.

“That's Reiner,” Ymir says, pointing to a stocky blonde youth practicing with a spear. “Leads the Hornfoot clans. The tall lug next to him is Bert, sort of his right-hand man.”

Historia’s eyes fall and she feels a prickle of horror. Their feet were bare and frostbite-black, with thick, scaly calluses growing all over.

Ymir laughs. “The Hornfoots are famous for going shoeless, haven’t you heard in your stories? Brilliant custom if you ask me. The rest of us, if we lose our boots out there in the ice, we’re fucked. Ah, and there’s Annie.”

Ymir nods at a tiny woman with hair yellow as yolk, sparring with a stuffed dummy. “I told you about her, remember? The girl from the ice-river clans. What she lacks in charm she makes up for in ferocity.”

Historia's jaw slackens as Annie kicks the head of the dummy clean off. A few men of the Watch observe, but don’t dare to comment.

“Those crows better watch themselves,” Ymir says, “if they don't want her making them into her next meal.”

“She’s a cannibal?”

Annie glances their way, and for a horrifying moment Historia worries she’s spoken too loud.

“It’s ice-river tradition, love,” Ymir says. 

“How ghastly.”

Ymir snaps her teeth playfully at Historia, making her shiver. It’s not entirely unpleasant.

Then Ymir sits back, watching her people at work. “They can all be yours, little queen. Them and all their armies. You keep your promises to us, allow us to take refuge in your kingdoms, and you won’t find truer allies than the free folk.”

“I won’t betray you, Ymir. I swear it by all the gods.”

Ymir looks at her, face guarded. “All of them? Do you even know how many gods we have north of the Wall?”

“No.” Historia leans toward her. “But I’ll swear by them, too.”

Ymir tossles Historia’s hair. “Lighten up, I’m only japing.” 

Historia rolls her eyes, leaning back to avoid Ymir’s hand.

“Shit, they’ll probably make  _ me  _ a goddess after I’m dead. Can you imagine?” Ymir snorts.

“I can.”

Historia enjoys watching Ymir grumble for a response. She can't imagine any of her sister's courtships were such fun.

*

Erwin waits until the castle falls silent. He waits until the only souls stirring are those patrolling the Wall, and they won’t see him from their height.

Then he slips into the training yard, his father’s longsword at his hip, its scarlet lion’s-head pommel at his fingertips. When he slides it free it echoes metallic in the night. He waits. No one runs to investigate.

He assumes a defensive position, gripping his sword tight. Already his leg protests, sore and strained. He parries an fictitious enemy, then spins, strikes.

His blood warms his body until he falls into the old muscle memories of battle. The pain in his calf fades. He doesn’t pay mind to the lancing sting of sweat at his brow. There’s nothing but the imaginary knight at his blind side, armor-clad, swinging for his head. He pivots, blocks.

“Erwin?”

He whirls around, sword arm singing, half-expecting a real assailant. Then he spots Levi at the far edge of the training yard. Erwin pants, catching his breath.

“What are you doing?” Levi comes closer. “That leg’s not fully healed yet.” 

“I know, I know,” Erwin says quickly. He sheaths his sword, wipes his brow. “Never hurts to practice.”

“Practice for what?”

Levi stares, waits. Erwin’s made a career of lying to his men, saying what he must to make them give their lives for the Watch. Every time he feels one tally marked against his soul. When it’s Levi he’s deceiving, it feels like a hundred.

“I should have discussed this with you--”

“What, marching out into battle? You can’t be thinking that.” 

Erwin doesn’t deny it. Levi laughs hollowly, putting a hand over his mouth. 

“Unbelievable, Erwin.”

“My horse will--”

“And what if you’re unhorsed? What if you have to fight on that damn leg? What if I can’t watch your back every second?”

“I’d never ask you to.”

“Dammit, that’s not--” Levi clenches his fist. He looks around the yard, then lowers his voice. “That’s not the point. You can barely walk, and you won’t be fighting wildlings this time. These are thousands of properly-armed, properly-trained royal knights.”

“You don’t give the wildlings enough credit.”

“Erwin--”

“Levi, please listen to me.”

He places a careful hand on Levi’s shoulder. Levi folds his arms tightly but meets his eyes.

“I missed the last three rangings. On one, the Queen Beyond the Wall was captured. On another, I lost a half-dozen men.”

“You didn’t lose them, they were my responsibility--”

“Levi. Who would I be if I continued sending my men off to die without me? If I let history be written without me there to witness it?”

“You’d be alive. History can wait.”

Levi’s eyes blaze, unbudging from Erwin’s. He knows there’s something more to Levi’s protests, something in the uncomfortable tangle of emotion he tethers behind firmly-folded arms. But Levi’s never been the sort of man to give the tangle a voice. He could speak his mind in brutal honesty all day but he could never speak his heart.

In that way, Erwin supposes, they’re too much alike for their own good.

“Levi,” Erwin says softly.

Levi finally drops his gaze. He turns, walks away from Erwin, but not in the direction he expects.

“Levi?”

Erwin trails after him as he heads down a tunnel toward the rookery, toward the attached maester’s quarters. Levi unceremoniously raps on the door of Hange’s bedroom. 

“What are you doing?”

“Getting a second opinion,” Levi growls, still knocking.

The door swings open. Hange holds a knife, hair wilder than usual, lenses askew on their face and a robe hastily drawn over their nightgown. 

“Seven bloody hells.” Hange sets the knife on a small table by the door. “You better have a good reason for this or the Others take you both.”

“Tell him he can’t go,” Levi says.

“Levi--” Erwin starts.

“To the battle. Tell him he can’t go.”

“What?” Hange looks at both of them. “If this is something personal don’t involve me in--”

“You’re a Maester--”

“Levi--”

“Tell him. In your medical opinion. Is he ready?”

Hange still looks slightly bewildered, ready to get rid of them more than anything. “Well, he has made remarkable improvements since my last assessment…”

“Don’t bullshit, Hange.”

“Levi, this is ridiculous,” Erwin says.

Hange sighs, crossing their arms. They address Erwin alone. 

“I won’t recommend it, but I won't forbid it either. If you feel you’re ready, you’re ready, and frankly we could use you in what we’re about to face. Can I go back to sleep now? I was having a lovely dream about mushroom soup. Do either of you know how long it’s been since I’ve had real mushrooms from the Neck?”

Hange shuts the door. Levi shuffles on his feet. The fury in him smolders into nothing.

“Levi, I’m not a child. Why are you doing this?”

“I’m done now,” Levi says. 

Erwin hates the quiet defeat in his voice, the way he won’t meet his eyes. “Levi…”

He reaches for Levi, who steps away. 

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he says. “Good luck out there.”

Levi walks off without looking back. Erwin, who got what he wanted, watches Levi go, his own feet rooted outside Hange’s door.

*

Historia lies awake in her chambers, watching a wet snow fall by the torchlight outside. She wonders if it will continue into the morning, if her soldiers will fight with flakes in their faces. If they will die in the cold, with frozen earth for graves.

Clouds hang thick over the moon, hiding time from her. Fretting over the battle would change nothing. But there remained an action she could take.

Just outside the door she finds her guards.

“Send for the Queen Beyond the Wall,” she tells them. “And then you may take your leave for the night.”

“Your Grace, are you--”

“Yes, I’m certain. I will be safe.”

It’s another ten minutes before Ymir arrives. She only raps on the door once before Historia flings it open. Ymir’s still in her sleepwear, with boots and a cloak to warm her on the walk over.

Historia tightens her hand on the knob. “Come in.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure of being dragged from my room hours past sundown?” Ymir's eyes are sleep-heavy, but they warm upon Historia. “And here I thought I was a free woman again.”

Historia closes the door. “Sit.”

“Oh, so that’s how it is, hm?” Ymir sits all the same, removing her boots and relaxing on the end of the bed. Her smile is an easy thing, careless as a cat playing with river fish. “On a power trip, are we princess?”

Historia covers her lips with a finger and Ymir goes silent, still. Candlelight shivers on the wall. She slides her finger to Ymir’s lower lip and the girl's mouth parts just slightly, just enough to feel the wisp of a breath against her skin.

“I am your queen,” Historia reminds her.

“Yes,” Ymir says. Her eyes won’t leave Historia’s, spellbound. It doesn’t yet feel like rejection.

Historia lowers her hand. “And you are mine as well.”

Ymir reaches to bring her hand back, locking their fingers together. The fading embers in the hearth make a last gasp for life, crackling quietly behind them. 

“I’m yours.”

Historia cups her face with light fingers. She traces the sharp tip of Ymir’s nose, the high, elegant plane of her forehead.

“Your Grace--”

“Historia.”

“Historia.”

“Ymir.”

When Historia kisses her it’s a sensation more mental than physical, a match striking across her mind. It lasts only seconds before Ymir leans back to look at her, a smile spreading sweet and wide. She kisses her again. Ymir’s hands are warm on her back, igniting every nerve in her spine. Historia has no idea what she’s doing but the slide of Ymir’s bottom lip against her own feels right, as does steadying herself with a hand at Ymir’s waist, and using a hint of her own tongue to taste Ymir’s mouth--

Ymir pulls away, gasping. “You ever done this before?”

“No,” Historia admits. “Is it that obvious?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t either.”

They both laugh, dizzy and delirious, keeping each other upright. They still can’t keep their hands off each other, Ymir stroking Historia’s hair, Historia sliding her fingers along Ymir’s sides, warmth spilling through her body.

“I always heard southern girls were shy little lambs,” Ymir says. “I don’t know what to make of you.”

Historia hums in acknowledgment, the words slow to reach her brain. Ymir’s eyes are dark and distracting. She gives Ymir a nudge up the bed, until they’re both more comfortable.

They lie there and kiss for what feels like hours, learning each other’s mouths, giggling through the awkwardness, the mashed noses and bitten lips. She wants more even as she takes it, wants a lifetime of this, wants back the years of her youth she spent without Ymir by her side. She wants more even as their kisses grow slow and lazy and their heads lean heavy against each other on the pillow, laughs tumbling easy in the breath of space between them.

Historia doesn’t remember falling asleep, only waking to a white autumn sunrise and Ymir’s freckled arm slung across her chest. She looks down at the woman sleeping over her heart, snoring something fierce. Ymir looks heartbreakingly young in the first brush of morning, brow at ease and eyelashes lying soft on her cheeks.

For a moment Historia wants nothing more than to be a common girl with no name, with an unguided future. She wishes she could split herself in two, to spend one life ruling kingdoms and one loving Ymir.

Historia slips out from under Ymir’s arm and dresses before her guards can fetch her. She pauses only to kiss Ymir’s unfurled knuckles, to watch her nose scrunch as she wakes.

“Ymir. It's time.”

*

Erwin’s door creaks, startling him from a guilty sleep. He rolls over.

For as much trust as he places in his men he wouldn’t put it past one to try slaying him in the night, putting an end to his crusade. He’s not sure he would blame them.

“It’s me.”

The near-dawn sky threads navy blue into Levi’s hair, framed by the door. He shuts it behind himself, shutting out the cold.

Neither says anything, allowing the tension to stretch between them. Levi stands on stone feet, eyes on the floor. Erwin wants nothing more than to beg forgiveness he hasn’t earned, but he’s too far gone to look back now. Perhaps Levi’s heart has finally hardened against him. Perhaps that would be for the best.

“Is--” Levi stops, noticing Erwin’s sword lying on the desk, cleaned and polished. He swallows. “Is there  _ anything  _ I can say to change your mind?”

There are words that would make Erwin ache to stay, ache to dismantle the whole damned Watch and steal away with Levi somewhere warm. Somewhere safe. Anywhere. He could want, has wanted, more powerfully than he knew he ever could.

How he wants.

“No.”

Levi nods, eyes downcast. He rubs at his nose, still nodding.

“Levi, I’m so--”

“Don’t,” he says, his tone more tired than harsh. He hovers by the door, hands clenching and unclenching. He gestures vaguely toward Erwin. “Could I just…”

“Yes. Please.”

Levi folds his cloak carefully over a chair. He sits on the side of Erwin’s bed and the mattress hardly gives under his hesitation. Erwin smooths a hand over Levi’s shoulder until he relaxes, tension seeping away. Morning creeps too close for either of them to sleep anymore but Erwin feels at rest. Levi letting him go is as close to absolution as he’ll ever get. If it were Levi in his place, Erwin isn’t sure he’d have the strength.

“Do you remember when you first recruited me?” Levi asks.

Erwin smiles. “You were just a boy then.”

“So were you. And I still would’ve broken out of that dungeon on my own if you and Mike hadn’t carted me away.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

In those days Levi was a scrappy thing caught stealing to provide for the urchins under his wing, and Erwin was nothing more than the disgraced son of a disgraced minor lord. Erwin half-expected to slip through a frozen river on his first ranging, so ill-prepared was he for a life in the black. But Levi was a natural survivor, strong of body and heart alike. He would always find a way to thrive on the Wall, and help those alongside him thrive too.

“At first I hated everything about this place,” Levi says. His finger trails along the edge of Erwin’s mattress. “Hated all the rigid structure bullshit, hated the men who’d desert for the night to go whoring, hated being so close to Mole’s Town again after running to King's fucking Landing to get away.” His hand reaches Erwin’s wrist. He lets it rest there. “And I really hated you.”

Erwin’s swell of fondness was unbearable, his heart too small a thing to hold what Levi makes him feel. He wants to reach out but is loathe to disturb Levi’s line of thought. 

“I thought you were the worst kind of brown-noser. Too eager to rise through the ranks and assume command with all your bullshit talk.”

“You weren’t wrong.”

“Shh.” Levi aims a glare over his shoulder, eyes a sharp glint under the shadow of his hair. “I’m getting to a point.”

“And what’s that?”

“Any other Lord Commander would have thrown a Targaryen out in the snow if she came begging, or betrayed her to the Baratheons when the price was right. Now the price is your life and you’re still willing to pay it.”

“It’s only what’s right--”

“It’s only what you would do. Only you. Dammit Erwin, I--we can’t lose someone who--”

It suddenly unnerves Erwin, the way Levi talks. He sits up fully, leans close. It only seems to agitate Levi further, his rigid control crumbling.

“Levi--”

“Don’t, just--” Levi put two fingertips against Erwin’s lips, like he can push the words away. Then he drops his hand abruptly. “Just watch your back. Stay on your horse.”

“I--” Erwin stops. He’s done lying to Levi. “I’ll try.”

“Good.”

Levi stands, throws his cloak back on. He loiters near the door a moment before turning back.

“There’s no one else I’d trust to lead us today,” Levi says. “No one else.”

He goes before Erwin can say a word. When he's gone Erwin puts two fingertips to his lips. He doesn’t know if there’s a word for what he shares with Levi, but he wouldn’t trade it for the warmest seat in the finest hall in Westeros. 

*

Historia runs a finger along the sharp winged edges of her silver crown, nestled in a bed of dark red velvet. She can barely recall the days her uncle bore the dragon’s crown. She does remember her father wearing it while begging in the streets of Lys, a king in rags. 

She hasn’t worn her best royal garb since the day she arrived at Castle Black. Historia wraps herself in Targaryen colors and feels close again to the sister she loved, the uncle she admired, the parents she feared and revered. All gone, all except her. 

She checks her crown in the faded mirror, adjusts it to lie straight on her head. She lifts her neck until the weight becomes an easy load to bear.

Outside the stable master brings her a horse. She’ll ride to the front lines before battle, then retreat to observe.

Historia's stomach churns as she looks at the men and women prepared to ride out and defend her. If only she’d been trained to wield a sword before a sceptre. Perhaps she wouldn’t feel so helpless.

Ymir rides up to Historia's side, fierce and strong atop her horse. She’s pinned her hair back to show lines of white chalky paint under her eyes. Many of the free folk have decorated themselves similarly, far more excited for the battle than any brothers in black.

“You look…” Ymir takes her in. “You look right.”

“As do you. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Usurper’s brat tucked his tail and ran at the sight of you.”

Ymir’s smile is warm and wild. It reminds Historia of the way she looked at her the night before, close in the dark. 

“And what are you thinking now, Your Grace?” Ymir teases. She nudges her horse close enough to sweep a thumb across the telltale blush on Historia’s cheek.

Historia catches her hand. “I’ll tell you after.”

There’s a loud cough behind them. Historia turns to see Levi walking his horse toward the gate, giving them a pointed look.

“We’re leaving now,” he says. “I trust your goodbyes have been sufficient.”

Historia looks back at Ymir, slowly dropping her hand. “Nearly.”

*

The woods lighten near Mole’s Town. Levi can’t avoid looking at the collection of shops and cellars leading down to the village proper. He remembers the summer days when his mother would take him up to play in the slush, how much brighter she smiled in daylight.

A young girl collecting firewood stops when she notices the procession. Historia waves at the girl, whose mouth drops open. Even this far north, even in the dark of Mole’s Town, the red and black Targaryen banners would be unmistakable to a child old enough to hear the stories.

Levi wonders if she’ll stay to watch a thousand more faces pass by. If she’ll wait until the last of the army passes before retreating to the relative warmth of the underground village.

He wouldn’t blame her. He remembers the days when freezing in the open light was preferable to one more warm minute shut away in the dark.

*

They reach the battlefield as the sun breaks free from the horizon, lighting a weirwood grove beside a sea of sigils. Historia recognizes the direwolf at Lady Nan Stark’s back, the bear at Lady Mormont’s, countless other small northern houses. Among the Baratheon supporters she spots the Tyrell flower, the Lannister lion, names she will remember when she reaches her throne.

A horn sounds and three riders gallop across the field, carrying a flag of the crowned stag. Historia shivers. All her life she heard tales of the usurper but had never seen his sigil, his people, not in the flesh. The sigil of the man who killed her uncle, who sent her family into exile. Now the usurper’s son had come for her.

_ All these years he thought himself safe from the last Targaryens. Let him learn how wrong he was _ .

“Let’s go,” Erwin mutters. 

He nudges his horse and Historia follows, straightening her back.

Eren himself doesn’t join in the final negotiations. Instead the queen approaches, flanked by two guards and fully armed for battle. She fixes them with a flat stare as they approach, but her cold exterior can’t hide how young she is, younger even than Historia. The girl was responsible for sending spies and assassins after her family in Essos, yet Historia still finds pity in her heart.

“Lady Mikasa,” Erwin greets as they all slow their horses, stopping within earshot of each other.

“Traitor,” Mikasa replies. “Will you turn over the girl?”

“We will not.”

“Then we’re done talking.”

Mikasa turns her horse sharply. Historia tightens the grip on her own reins.

“That’s it?” she calls. “A few words and you’re going to die for this usurper?”

Mikasa draws her sword, startling her guards. “Say that word again and you’ll be the only one to die here today.” 

All around them knights and free folk alike grow restless, sensing the onset of battle. On the Baratheon front lines the king paces like a creature in a cage, eyes fixed on Historia. She looks back at her own ranks, back to where Ymir fidgets on her horse, fingers drumming on the hilt of her axe.

“My soldiers would never forgive me,” Historia says, “if I brought them out here for nothing.”

Mikasa snarls, shoving her sword into its sheath and taking off to rejoin the king. Historia and Erwin make for their own front lines.

“Head for the hills now,” Erwin says. “Levi or myself will come for you when it is safe, or Dawk if neither of us are able.”

_ If neither of you survive.  _

“You didn’t stop us,” Historia says. “Mikasa and I, we could have killed each other and you said nothing.”

“There was nothing for me to say. I’ve put my trust in you to lead, and you haven’t let me down.” Erwin smiles. “You were brave back there, and bold. I hope I live to see your rule.”

Her throat goes too tight for words, so she simply nods, wishing as ever she could do more.

*

The moment Mikasa returns to her king’s side he lets loose a cry his soldiers echo. The wildlings, with little patience for the formalities of southern warfare, charge into the field. Others loose the first volley of arrows. Levi readies his own bow as the Baratheon forces realize the battle begun.

It’s been years since Levi fought more than bands of wildlings, and it takes him time to adjust. Today the numbers are greater but the soldiers clunkier, weighed down by armor and metal shields. Before long Levi finds weaknesses at the armpit, behind the knee, the nape of the neck. 

The rhythm of battle allows him to forget about Erwin for seconds at a time, until his latest target falls and he rushes around to get a quick glimpse. His breath calms every time he sees Erwin still on horseback, still armed. The glimpse is all he has before he’s targeted, before some fool of the king’s sees Levi’s stature and mistakes him for an easy kill.

It takes an hour before Erwin catches Levi looking. He wipes the blood across his forehead, leaves a streak, sunlit and tall atop his horse.

“How am I doing?” Erwin shouts, grinning.

Levi can’t help the smile breaking across his own face. They would be alright.

“Watch your flank, idiot.”

*

Shortly into battle Ymir ducks to avoid a vicious hawk, its claws tearing through the leather armor of her soldiers. A half hour later she leaps out of the path of an enormous stag, goring dozens in a single sprint.

Both creatures bore wild, angry green eyes. Ymir remembers the whispers about the usurper boy-king.

_ So they were true. No matter. We have skinchangers of our own. _

Every second brought a possible death. A familiar truth of battle, but Ymir is more aware than ever.

Somewhere in the hills Historia watches. Ymir wonders how the queen would react if she were to fall in battle. Would Historia weep over her body? Harden her heart, move on?

_ I won’t give her the chance. I will not die today. She’ll see me again. _

Ymir’s shocked back to her senses by a rush of wind near her ear. She turns in time to avoid a lance through the head. With her axe she knocks the soldier from his horse. Another second stolen from death. And another.

_ And I will see her. _

*

Historia watches in silence, her hands an iron clutch on her horse’s reins.

“Your Grace,” her guard says. “You need not witness this. You can take shelter in these woods, or go on to Castle Black.”

“To await capture if the battle goes ill?” The thought makes her shiver. Would they execute her in the castle courtyard? Or drag her back to King’s Landing, make a spectacle of her, take life from her in the place she was born? “No thank you, ser. They are dying for me. If I can’t even stay and watch…”

As it was she could hardly watch now. Colors and flags and furs and horses bled together in a mess of breaking bodies, the clashes of swords nearly drowned out by screams. She tells herself every moving spot of brown is Ymir still on her feet, still fighting. But in her gut she knows it’s impossible to tell. She won’t know until the last arms are laid down.

Blood spreads through the snow before her, the cost of her throne. Historia has seen death, smell its breath up close. But never on this scale. Never like this.

*

Ymir can always feel it when it happens, the turning tide of battle. The war cries of wildlings grow louder than Baratheon fury, and it takes Ymir a moment to find a new adversary after every kill. Her free folk herd groups of kingsmen toward the weirwood grove, where dozens of their best archers wait in treetops. Surrender will come soon.

One Baratheon soldier still makes progress, spinning wildly with two blades, short black hair loose. Northmen fall around her. Then she spots Ymir. She doesn’t hesitate before rushing.

Mikasa’s attacks are ferocious, unrefined. Ymir meets her blow for blow, but must think quicker than with more predictable soldiers. She’s younger than Ymir herself, something desperate in her eyes that almost makes Ymir feel sorry for her. She finds herself reluctant to kill the girl.

She supposes Mikasa doesn’t feel the same.

“You’re not from the Seven Kingdoms,” Ymir says.

“Neither are you.” 

Mikasa slices at Ymir’s neck with both of her blades. Ymir’s back bows to avoid the attack.

“And yet you fight for them,” Ymir says.

“So do you.”

Mikasa, clearly bored by the exchange, takes quicker slices at Ymir. Ymir is forced to lower her axe entirely, running backward on light feet.

“Why? Because Eren Baratheon commands it?”

“Yes.” At his name Mikasa slows, goes into a defensive stance. “He is my king.”

“Your usurper.”

Violence lights in Mikasa’s eyes a moment before Ymir takes an offensive advantage, swinging her axe at a variety of angles to catch her off-guard.

“And what about you?” Mikasa breathes hard, parrying. “You fight for your false queen?”

Ymir smiles, not as sensitive to verbal jabs as Mikasa. “I fight for my people. For their freedom.”

“Lucky. Because I’m going to kill that traitor girl, just like I’m going to kill you. If you beg I’ll let you have the spike next to her pretty little head in King’s La--”

With her axe Ymir pushes at the junction of Mikasa’s blades hard enough to knock the girl off her feet. Ymir raises her axe to deliver the final blow. Mikasa regains her bearings just enough to block it. Ymir’s next swing sends one of Mikasa’s blades flying. Then a swing lands an inch away from Mikasa’s neck, before she raises her last blade to meet it. They push at each other, Mikasa’s teeth gritting, eyes bright.

Ymir marvels that the girl only now breaks into a sweat, beads forming at her brow. Something close to a sob breaks free from her mouth as she pushes Ymir’s axe, both hands gripping the handle of her blade tight.

“You don’t have to fight for him,” Ymir says, quiet in the roar of the battle. “You’re the best fighter on this field, you could do anything--”

“No!” Mikasa screams. She shoves at Ymir one last time, setting her off-balance. Ymir stumbles just enough for Mikasa to resume hacking away. Ymir parries, and with Mikasa still on the ground it’s only a few swings before she nicks the girl’s cheek.

They both stop. Mikasa’s mouth opens in shock. Gingerly she touches the cut on her face. Ymir wouldn’t be surprised if it were the first time she’d been touched by an enemy blade.

Mikasa gets to her feet and Ymir allows it. She wipes the streak of blood across her cheek with the back of her wrist.

“He is my  _ king _ ,” Mikasa growls.

“He may not be for long. I’d hate to see a soldier like you die on the wrong side.”

A horrible bellow slices through the chaos, stealing both their attentions. Ymir knows the sound well. She made that sound the day her mother was attacked, her village stormed. She never thought she’d hear it coming from the stoic Lord Commander.

She turns to watch him fall to his knees twenty yards away, gathering the First Ranger in his arms. Levi sputters around a spear in his chest and Ymir’s heart falls. He gave her nothing but trouble from the day they met but he was an incredible fighter. It was lucky the battle was near-won already. They wouldn’t have victory without him.

Over Mikasa’s head Ymir watches a few Baratheon soldiers march toward Erwin, spears ready. Erwin’s head stays bowed over Levi, utterly distracted. Something sick lands in her gut.

Two free folk rush to Ymir’s aid, to engage Mikasa. Mikasa raises a quick blade to quick to meet them.

Ymir leaves the trio to it and runs toward Erwin. The man’s level head had saved her life. She couldn’t face herself if she left the debt unpaid.

*

The leader in Erwin urges him to get back on his feet. The leader in Erwin begs him to rejoin the battle, reminds him of the other soldiers counting on him.

Erwin could have been dreaming when he watched the lance pierce Levi’s chest. Levi had come to the Wall like something from the Age of Heroes, some invincible survivor of the Long Night, his strength storied and his impact unparalleled. He worried when Levi left his side on a ranging, but a part of Erwin always trusted he would come back, whole and hale as ever. 

Erwin runs to him now, holds him, feels a cry leave his mouth even if his ringing ears can’t hear it. Even in dreams he couldn’t imagine losing Levi.

He reaches under his own armor and tears a large strip from his undershirt. Erwin ties it around Levi’s shoulder, to slow any blood he can.

Nothing on Levi’s face shows pain or recognition. It’s as if his mind is already gone.

“Lord Commander!”

Erwin doesn’t know what he could have done to make Levi’s life better, but he could have tried. He should have tried.

“ _ Lord Commander! _ ”

He turns to see Ymir put her axe through the belly of a Baratheon soldier, his own sword held high over Erwin’s back. The soldier falls. Ymir kneels at Erwin’s side.

“You’ve got to move, you’re gonna get killed here.”

“Yes, I--”

He will rise. He will take his sword in hand, find the horse he abandoned in his haste to get to Levi.

Levi. He’ll have to leave him.

“Lord Commander--”

Ymir tugs at his arm. Erwin will have to let go of Levi. He should. He will.

Levi’s hair is so soft under his hand.

Ymir goes around Levi’s other side and takes Erwin square by the shoulders, forcing him to meet her eyes.

“We’ve nearly won. Look. Our soldiers outnumber them now. The king’s cowards are fleeing. Help us finish the fight.”

The leader in him returns, clears his mind. He pushes his grief to a far corner of his heart. He’ll deal with it later.

“Thank you, Ymir. Forgive me.”

Erwin releases Levi and stands at once. The sight of Levi’s head lolling against the ground nearly knocks him down again.

Ymir watches him for a moment. Then she looks around the battlefield and whistles once.

“Porco!”

A small man in heavy leather armor runs toward her. Ymir nods toward Levi.

“Stay with this one, yeah? Make sure we bring him back.”

The man nods, stands by Levi with a spear ready in hand. Ymir picks up Erwin’s sword and hands it back to him.

“Come, Lord Commander. Let’s end this.”

Erwin remembers the day his father was killed, how brave his mother was for him. He’ll follow her example as he follows Ymir.

*

Historia watches the usurper’s soldiers lay down their arms. Ten minutes later Nile Dawk comes up the hill to fetch her, and she knows what it means. She doesn’t hear his words as she looks past him, toward the battlefield, desperately searching for even one familiar head.

“Your Grace?”

“Yes.” She slides numbly off her horse, hands the reins to her attendant. “I heard. Pardon me.”

She sets off down the hill as quickly as her heeled boots will allow. She hurries past bowing men of the Night’s Watch, past cowed kingsmen who look like they’d love nothing more than to take up arms and claim her head. 

The field reeks like nothing she’s ever smelled and every breath sends acid rushing up to her throat but she pushes past men and slips through blood and searches and searches. Still she doesn’t see Ymir.

“Historia!”

She turns quickly at a woman’s voice. Annie hurries toward her, near-unrecognizable from the mud darkening her hair.

“You’re alive,” Historia sighs. She grips Annie’s shoulder, as if to double-check. “And unharmed?”

“Nothing a day off my feet won’t fix.” Annie pauses. “I know what you want to ask.”

“Where--”

Annie looks over Historia’s shoulder and nods. Historia follows her gaze and sees a cart loaded with bodies, surrounded by living free folk. Her heart drops to her gut.

“Oi, Ymir!” Annie shouts.

One of the free folk turns away from the cart. Historia’s head swims with relief and she steadies herself against Annie. For the most part Ymir looks unharmed, straight-backed and strong. She hurries over to them.

“This one was looking for you,” Annie says, nodding at Historia. “Seemed to think you were in some sort of danger.”

“Me? Impossible.”

Her eyes are exhausted, her limbs sagging under leather and blood, but she’s alive. Historia gives an angry huff before pulling Ymir close, crushing her in a hug.

“Don’t scare me like that again,” Historia says roughly.

Annie sighs. “I’ll see where else I’m needed, then.”

“Thanks, Annie,” Ymir says, her voice half a laugh. Only then does she return Historia’s embrace.

“So,” Ymir says after a minute, “how long do you suppose until the next battle?”

Historia pulls away. “What?”

“I don’t want to get rusty, after all. I don’t stay this good with an axe by sitting on my ass for weeks at a time.”

“Ymir...” Historia steps back, takes Ymir’s hands. “I thank you for keeping me safe today, but you have no further duty to me. You’re a queen.”

“Queen.” Ymir’s mouth twists. “I don’t imagine I will stay queen for long.”

“Gods be good, what do you mean?”

“Things work differently for my people than yours, Historia. They look to a leader only in times of great strife, when unity is necessary for survival. When that time passes they will go their own ways, make their own lives. Now we’ve made it to the south in peace. We are truly free folk once more.”

“And if the White Walkers invade?”

“They will find new leaders, if needed. My people are prepared.” Ymir turns Historia’s hands over, runs light thumbs along her palms. “They have no more need of me.”

“And yet,” Historia says softly, watching the link of their hands, “it seems I still have need of you. But only if--”

“Yes.”

Historia meets her eyes. “Ymir, you should--”

“It’s settled, and I don’t want to hear anymore about it. I go with you, wherever that may be.”

Ymir’s strong grip betrays her light tone. Historia strengthens her own grip, swallowing hard. If she could cross the Narrow Sea and reach Castle Black on her own, she can only imagine what she’ll do with Ymir by her side.

“What?” Ymir asks.

Historia smiles. “Nothing. You reek. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

*

Light breaks like a tide in his eyes from time to time. Mostly everything is darkness.

Sometimes sound crashes into his consciousness, a small touchstone to remind him he’s alive. Mostly there’s silence, and it’s then he forgets.

He might as well be dead. In the dark he listens for his mother’s voice.

Sound and light ebb and flow. Then there’s a voice he can put a living name to.

_ Hange. Hange is here _ .

It leads him to string other thoughts together.  _ Hange’s at Castle Black. So I must be at Castle Black. _

Then,  _ we must have made it back. _

Then,  _ who else did? _

This more than anything forces him through the fog. He reaches out with his right arm until he touches something solid. His left arm feels deadened and stretched by pain.

The solid thing takes his hand, squeezing it tight.

“Welcome back.”

“Han--” It’s like forcing his voice through broken glass. He coughs and a stabbing pain leaps into his chest, leaving him breathless. Hange drops his hand and comes back a moment later holding a cup of milk of the poppy to his lips. He drinks blindly, breathing a little easier.

“Seven hells Levi, I started to think you weren’t gonna wake up. You almost put my reputation in a bind there.”

“Your reputation.” Levi laughs, half-coughing around it.

He opens his eyes, squinting against the white afternoon light in the room. Hange looks exhausted and worried despite their jape. Something about the look in their eyes turns Levi’s gut to stone. He wants desperately to ask. He’s terrified of the answer.

“It’s been four days,” Hange says. “One of the wildlings stitched you up on the field and you've been here since. Your body’s been in a right terrible shock, you kept passing out on me. What with all the surgery, it was probably for your own good.”

“Tell me.”

“What?”

“Just tell me. I can see it on your face. You’re keeping something from me.”

“I’m not--”

“He’s dead, isn’t he,” he says flatly.

“Levi, listen to me.”

Levi swallows. Hange leans toward him, brow furrowed.

“He’s alive,” they say. “But we didn’t get Eren or Mikasa. They escaped somehow...their army was destroyed, I don’t know how they could’ve slipped through. But the good news is we won. And--”

“Erwin’s alive?” His head is still slow, still foggy.

Hange smiles. “Told you, didn’t I? This is why you have to trust your maester. He’s fine.”

“He’s fine.” 

Levi sinks against his pillows. He wants to say something else but can’t bring himself to string together a word, let alone a sentence. Hange pats his hand, giving it a firm squeeze.

“He’s hardly left this room since your return,” Hange says. “I’ve been kicking him out now and then to keep the Watch from falling apart but he’s been back every hour, my scholarly wisdom be damned. In fact if my timing is right he’s probably--”

The door opens quietly. Erwin peeks his head in and his mouth opens in surprise to see Levi awake. Hange laughs. They give Levi’s hand one more pat and stand.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Hange says. They close the door behind them.

Erwin looks like he’s seeing a ghost.

“So.” Levi laughs, wincing. “Sorry for all the nagging. Looks like I was the one we should’ve worried about.”

Erwin strides close and kneels at his bedside. He takes Levi’s hand in both of his.

“You’re well?” Erwin asks, voice strange and soft.

“Yeah. Hurts like shit, but it’ll pass.” 

“Good.” Erwin nods. “Good.”

“Erwin?”

He lowers his head to Levi’s hand. Levi stares. He’s seen Erwin vulnerable before, but never like this.

“Good,” Erwin breathes. “Good.”

Levi feels the press of lips against his knuckles. He turns himself toward Erwin as best he can, cradling his head.

“Levi, I thought--”

“I know.”

Erwin sits up, slow to release Levi’s hand. It lets Levi get a proper look at him.

“I really was out for a few days.” Levi taps light fingers against Erwin’s jaw. “Your beard’s coming back.”

Erwin runs his own hand over it and laughs, embarrassed. “It hasn’t been on my mind.”

Levi smiles. The milk of the poppy clouds his head again.

“Move me over.”

“What, Levi?”

He carefully jerks his head toward the far side of the bed. “Move me over.”

“Why?” Erwin asks even as he stands, slides impossibly gentle arms under Levi to move him.

“So you have room.”

Erwin stills. “I shouldn’t rest. I’m already behind on--”

“Just five minutes,” Levi mumbles, the cloud in his head thickening.

His eyes sink shut. A moment later the bed shifts with Erwin’s weight. Levi shuffles closer, wincing when his forehead meets Erwin’s beard.

“Shave this shit,” Levi says. “Though really...it doesn’t look terrible.”

Erwin laughs. “Anything you say, Levi.”

Down in the castle courtyard their men toast to victory with drink and song. Levi thinks the two of them are allowed a celebration of their own.

*

Historia goes to meet the Lord Commander in his office two weeks after the battle. When she enters it’s the First Ranger waiting for her, comfortable behind Erwin’s desk.

“Sorry,” Levi says. “Me again.”

“That’s alright,” Historia says, practicing her queenly grace. “I’m glad to see you’re looking well.”

Levi laughs loudly. Historia realizes she’s never heard him laugh before.

“You remind me of Erwin sometimes. You’ve become quite the bullshitter.” Levi gestures to the sling on his arm, the yellowing bruises creeping up over his collar. “If this is looking well I’d hate to see myself in a real mess. Sit down.”

Historia settles into the chair across from him and pours herself a cup of ale, reluctantly growing used to the weak taste.

“So,” Levi says. “You’re leaving us next week. What’s your next step?”

“We sail for Sunspear.”

“Ah. I heard there was a raven from Dorne.”

“The princess wishes to meet and discuss the merging of our armies. But first we stop at Dragonstone.”

“That deserted old hill of rocks? What for?”

“My parents lived there for years before my grandfather died and my father became Uri’s heir. Before then countless generations of my family lived among those rocks.” Historia lowers her eyes. “I don’t know if I’ll find any more than ghosts there. But I’ve always wanted to see it.”

“Alright, alright, don’t start crying, I was only curious.” 

“I’m  _ not _ \--”

Levi rests his elbows on the desk. “And when you say ‘we’ are going, you mean...?”

“My retainers and Ymir’s free folk.”

“Including Ymir?”

“Naturally.”

“How far will she follow you?”

“As far as she wishes,” Historia replies, keeping back a defensive edge in her voice.

Levi holds her gaze for a long moment, something like regret in his eyes. “You know you can’t marry her, Historia.”

Her stomach turns to ice. Levi speaks again before she can deny it.

“Relax. I’m not condemning you. I see more than most, it’s why Erwin made me First Ranger. No one else seems to know and no one’s gonna hear it from me. My only concern is what the people will think when you sit the throne without an heir.”

It takes Historia time for her breath to steady again, to let danger ebb away. “I’ve given it a great deal of thought.”

“And?”

“I’ll take an orphan for a ward, grant them legitimacy and heirship.”

Levi’s smile is genuine. She’s taken him by surprise.

“Goodness knows there’s enough orphans in the capital. But this whole damn country runs on lineage. How do you know the high lords will accept your future prince or princess?”

“My entire family is dead. I have no distant cousins lying in wait to challenge their claim. The high lords will see that I am taking care to secure their future by providing an heir the best way I can.”

“Hm. That actually sounds reasonable.” There’s still a trace of a smile at his lips. “You’re gonna make some poor brat lucky one day.”

“If that isn’t the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he grumbles over her laughter.

*

Ymir slides on one of Historia’s robes, delighting in the silken feel, turning her wrists to watch the material glint in the firelight. “I tell you, if I could wear this every day, I might get used to this sort of life.”

She waits for Historia’s laugh at the jape. When none comes she turns. Historia stands near the fireplace, eyes distant as she stares into the flames.

“Historia? Historia? Quick, look, the red comet comes.” Then, louder, “Historia?”

“Hm?” Historia turns about, then laughs in surprise at the sight of Ymir in her robe. “Good gracious, I think that may be just a bit small on you. Turn around.”

“In good time. What was on your mind just now?”

“Oh.” Her smile fades. “Just thinking.”

“Thinking what?” Ymir goes to her side, puts an arm around her shoulders. “Go on.”

“Are you sure you want to come with me?”

Ymir frowns. “Of course I’m sure. I’ve been sure since the day I met you. Why do you ask this?”

Historia leans into her. “With all you’ve seen beyond the Wall, the Others...the people you've lost in battle...I suppose my pursuit of a throne seems childish.”

“Your intentions matter. They set you apart from any southern lord I’ve ever heard of.”

“I hope so.” Historia sighs, so tired it makes Ymir hold her tighter. “Even if I take King’s Landing winter will come. I can’t be queen if I have no one left to govern. I can’t hold back the Others if I’ve destroyed all possible allies who stand in my way.”

“And what is Eren Baratheon doing about the Others? How many of his smallfolk has he vowed to keep safe? If we’re to survive this winter we need someone who understands what we’re up against. We need you.”

Historia winds her arms around Ymir’s waist. “You make it sound so simple.”

“Only because it is.”

“Thank you, Ymir.”

_ If the winds hadn’t carried you to Castle Black my people would still be locked behind a wall, waiting to join the undead army. I should be thanking you. _

Ymir presses her lips to her forehead. “My queen.”

*

Erwin stands at Levi’s side to see Historia’s party off in the morning. Dozens of their men lurk at the edges of the courtyard for their own last glimpses.

Historia approaches him with Ymir at her side, Historia in fine Targaryen colors, Ymir in wild northern furs. Side by side the two queens were different as sand and sea, as fire and ice. Still they were meant to rule, and meant to rule together.

“Lord Commander,” Historia says as he bows in greeting. “I am grateful for your many weeks of hospitality.”

“It was a pleasure to have you with us,” Erwin says. He turns to Ymir. “Both of you.”

“Once we got past that rough patch, anyway,” Ymir says.

Levi snorts at Erwin’s side.

“We’re only a raven away,” Erwin says, “when you need our service again.”

“Thank you.” Historia smiles. “You make our kingdom proud.”

Erwin’s chest tightens. Strangely he thinks of his father, who died fighting Lannister forces in a Castamere cellar, believing his wife and son to be next. Often he wondered if any of the gods were true, if there was a place his father could see him. If there was a place his father could be proud of him, too.

“Alright, seven hells,” Levi says. “We’ll all see each other again soon enough, I’m sure. Meanwhile you two have a castle to take.”

Ymir smiles, toothy and wide, delighted by the reminder.

The army stirs up a thunder of hooves and feet and cart wheels as they depart. Within minutes the sound disappears as riders empty from the castle, leaving the courtyard quieter than Erwin can remember.

“What now, Lord Commander?” Levi asks.

Erwin looks down at the man beside him, offers a smile only he can see. Then he steels his face, turns to face the rest of his men.

“Now,” he says, “back to our stations.”

*

When her ship docks at Dragonstone Historia sees what Levi meant. The castle is less a welcoming home and more a fortress of stone wings, its shore sharp and barren. Moss grows thick and cold over the streets. Gulls and crows roost in every abandoned tower.

Still when she breathes in the sea salt there’s a stirring of history around her, in the breeze lifting goosebumps along her arms. The crash of waves and wind could be the beat of enormous dragon wings, the beasts of old. The skitter of pebbles at her feet could be her uncle’s soft voice, his stories of their ancestors, the ones who conquered land and sky alike.

The great hall is vast and grim and unforgiving in its grey edges, its drafty air. If Grisha Baratheon never called his banners she might have lived here while her sister learned to rule in King’s Landing. She might have been made to marry some prince of Dorne, some lord’s son in the Reach, have children with him here. She might have fixed the place up, opened its windows, let in its light.

She looks at Ymir’s back, tall in front of her, her neck craned to take in the high ceilings.

“Gods,” Ymir breathes, “have you ever seen anything like--”

Historia pulls her into a tight embrace. She thought she’d lost everything when she lost her home, her family. She never dreamed she’d find a new family. A new home.

“What’s this about?” Ymir asks, voice muffled against Historia’s hair.

“Nothing.” Her eyes squeeze shut. “Nothing.”

They build a fire in the main hearth. Already the great hall feels cozier with its light and warmth. Within minutes Ymir falls asleep with her head in Historia’s lap, the strangeness of sea travel wearing her out. Historia passes her hand over Ymir’s hair a last time, then reaches for the large drawstring bag she brought onto the island. Inside were a change of clothes for the morning, a hairbrush, and her old stone dragon egg at the bottom.

She pulls it out, slides gentle fingers over the scales. The egg always made her think of Frieda, who would lie beside her at night and tell stories of the old dragons, their names and great deeds. For a moment she’s a child again, dreaming of wind in her face and a dragon companion at her legs, carrying her across the world, far from anyone who would harm her.

By the firelight Historia feels warmth under her hands, a glow from within the egg itself. She remembers Frieda telling her their ancestors would nest their eggs in flame,  _ for dragons are fire made flesh _ .

Historia stretches out and rests her egg on the logs. For a moment she watches, not daring to believe. Minutes pass. The egg remains still and stone.

She gives a quiet laugh, feeling silly for even entertaining the thought. The dragons were long gone now, somewhere with her sister and uncle and every Targaryen before them. She rests her head back and finds quick sleep, her dreams filled with flaps from leathery wings.

A loud pop from the hearth wakes her, some hours later by the shift of the moon. Historia’s stunned to see the fire still roaring. She sits up, careful not to jostle Ymir.

Inside the hearth a jagged line split down the near middle of her egg. Historia reaches out a hand, feels tremendous heat without a lick of pain. Another crack appears. She hardly breathes.

“Ymir. Wake up. Come look at this.”


End file.
